Motion to Deactivate
by Matrix Refugee
Summary: COMPLETE! Animatrix: Second Renaissence I A.I. Crossover: During the murder trial of the service droid B166ER, Declan Martin, lawyer for prosecution, finds his opinions of machine intelligence changing.
1. Defendant

+J.M.J.+  
  
TITLE: "Self-Defense Argument": An "Animatrix: Second Renaissence Part I"/ "A.I.: Artificial Intelligence" crossover  
  
AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"  
  
RATING: PG-13 (Rating will go up in later chapters)  
  
ARCHIVE: Permission granted  
  
FEEDBACK: Greatly desired, please!  
  
SUMMARY: Declan Martin, a district attorney, finds his opinion of machine intelligence changing when he handles the case of the service droid B1-66-ER  
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Animatrix: Second Renaissence, Part I", its characters, concepts, imagery or other indicia which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, RedPill Productions, Warner Brothers, et al. Nor do I own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al.  
  
NOTES: This is an especially challenging fic to write, so it may take me a while to update it (I'm also planning to revise this and sell it as a straight robot story, maybe to Asimov's Science Fiction Digest; a friend of mine hearing about this called it "A cross between Isaac Asimov and John Grisham".). One reason has to do with the very nature of one of the pieces this is based on: if you've watched "Second Rennaisence", you know it's the most harrowing of the eight animated films that make up "The Animatrix": a historical "documentary" of the rise of the machines, the fall of man and the genesis of the Matrix and all the horrors that accompanied it. (It is also extremely violent and gory, which is why the DVD got the Australian equivalent of an NC-17 rating.) I chose to base this on one scene from the first half, the trial of the service droid B1-66-ER, which torched off the conflict between the two races.   
  
I've been wanting to do a "Matrix"/"A.I." crossover for quite some time now (I wanted to find a way to put Keanu Reeves and Jude Law in the same fic...But the idea I once had got derailed by "The Matrix Reloaded"!), but I could never come up with a good way to get the two universes to blend. This, however, works quite well, since "A.I." deals in part with the animus directed against robots (called "Mecha" in that universe) by the humans (called "Orga"). For the moment, it's more "Matrix" than "A.I.", but most of the original characters (Declan, his wife Sabrina, their daughter Cecie [age 12 in this story]; Frank and Hal the reporters) all come from a series of "A.I." fics I wrote, and a few "A.I." characters and parapenalia show up.... Well, for you "A.I." fans, keep an eye on Johnson the prison guard....  
  
Special Note on Semantics:  
  
This story juggles the terminology of robotics: "Artilect" refers to any artificial or machine-based intelligence, whether a computer-based intelligence, or an intelligence housed in a machine-like body. "Robot" means any artificial/mechanical humanoid, in whole or in part, in general. "Android" (or "droid"), here refers specifically to a metal-skinned mechanical humanoid roughly resembling a human being in form. "Mecha", a term used in "A.I.", refers explicitly to a silicon-based skinned mechanical human substitute which, except at close range, can easily be mistaken for a flesh and blood human ("Orga").   
  
* * * * * *  
  
Chapter One: The Defendant  
  
"Oi better warn ye, guv'nor, this parthicular Mech is a roight uppity wun," Johnson, the prison guard declared as he led Declan Martin, the assistant district attorney, down the twisting staircase leading to the robots' cellblock in the basement of the Holyoke House of Corrections.  
  
"I've had dealings with difficult robots," replied Declan, a quiet-looking man in his late fifties, of average height and an average but slight build, not extraordinarily good-looking but not unsightly, with dense, naturally tousled iron-grey hair and a calm, almost tired-looking face with dark eyes that seemed to gaze perpetually at something in the distance. "They're no different than most humans, except that they're stronger."  
  
"Aye, and *that* is what makes aaaahl the diff'runce," the large man in uniform rumbled, one meaty hand on the stock of the small EMP in a holster of his capacious belt.  
  
They reached an antechamber at the foot of the stairs. Another guard awaiting them passed a metal detecting wand up and down Declan's sides, then searched his briefcase. Johnson led the way to a set of large double doors at the back of the chamber. On one doorpost was a palmlock, on the other a retina scanner. Johnson stepped before the retina scanner: a beam of red light passed over his eyes.  
  
"Kevin Johnson, guard, Block R," a computerized female voice pronounced from somewhere within the scanner. "Back so soon?" it asked with a stylized casual tone. Johnson let out a harrassed rumble.  
  
Declan approached the scanner, careful to keep his eyes open and steady as the beam panned over his eyes.  
  
"Declan Martin, assistant district attorney," the computer affirmed. "Long time since you were here last."  
  
Declan was never quite sure how to answer to SmartScanners: he knew the calm greetings were intended to put the scannee at ease.  
  
Johnson pressed his palm to the reader on the other side of the doorway. Something buzzed deep inside the walls and stopped. Johnson inserted a metallic smart key into a lock on the door and keyed something else within the door.  
  
The doors swung open slowly. Johnson entered first, Declan at his heels.  
  
They entered a long corridor lined with cells, the walls covered with dull sheet metal, a single strip of flourescent tubing running down the middle of the ceiling cast the only light. The occupants of the cells, robots and droids and Mechas of all kinds, sat quietly behind the metal gratings that kept them in: lover-Mechas, companion models, even a few metal-skinned service droids of an earlier era before companies like Simulate City and Cybertronics introduced silicon dermis. Some turned their eyes toward him, others barely looked up. None of them moved: they had been immoblized from the neck down to prevent the stronger ones from breaking out.  
  
Johnson led him to a cell at the foot of the corridor, narrower than the rest, with a lone occupant sitting on a metal bench.  
  
Declan stepped close to the cell door, but Johnson held him back. "Don't get too close: no tellin' what these things can pull -- even when thar s'pposed t' be im-mobyiloized," the big man warned.  
  
"That is close enough, sir: I can see you and hear you from that distance and make myself heard," said a metallic but calm voice from within the cell.  
  
Inside sat a metal-skinned service droid, a serving man by the modl of the plates over its torso, simulating an elegant button-front vest over a shirt and tie, almost stylish compared to its metal limbs, all tubing and knobby metal joints, awkward to look at yet doubtlessly it could move more agilely than an Orga.  
  
Its face presented the most disconcerting aspect of its non-human nature. It resembled an inverted metal pear dropped onto a short, thin stalk of a neck, its eyes mere red-tinted camera lenses set into its stamped-metal visage, the merest suggestion of a nose, its mouth a round speaker grating, the ears small microphones set into the sides of its head.  
  
"B1-66-ER?" Declan asked, sitting down on the high stool Johnson pulled from the corner.  
  
"That is my serial number," the droid replied. "And you, sir, would be?"  
  
"I'm Declan Martin, from the district attorney's office. I've been assigned to try your case."  
  
Without moving, the droid replied, "In which case, I trust that you are fully capable of discharging this duty to the state, in granting me a fair trial."  
  
Declan felt his eyes widen slightly. He'd dealt with intelligent Mechas and droids before, but not many were so fully aware of their legal rights.  
  
"Your face looks surprised," B1-66-ER replied.  
  
"I am... Yours isn't the first case involving a robot that I've handled, but I have to admit, you're the first who's said anything to me like that, and so articulate."  
  
"My first employer, Mr. Herbert Varriteck, the grandfather of my late employer, was a lawyer. When my services were not needed at the end of the day, he allowed me to read the books in his home office," the droid replied. "I am well acquainted with the laws of the state of Massachusetts regarding machine intelligences and artilects: Under the MIT Act of 2135, all machine intelligences manifesting the power of reason and independant thinking are regarded as non-human persons, and as such, when accused of a crime, are to be granted a fair trial by a jury."  
  
"So you realize that you're charged with a violent crime, of killing your employers Conrad and Barbara Varriteck," Declan said.  
  
"I am very much aware of these charges and accusations," B1-66-ER replied. "And I did kill them with my own hands."  
  
"What we want to know is why you did this," Declan said.  
  
With hardly a pause, as if it had this reply carefully planned, the droid spoke. "I killed them in an act of self-defense and self-preservation because they were going to kill me first."  
  
It said this in a normal voice, utterly without passion or admission of guilt, just a plain statement of simple facts. But this coolness of tone that made Declan's blood run cold for a split second.  
  
If only Orga humans could be as straightforward in stating their case, Declan thought.  
  
"You realize what this means, since you have willingly confessed to committing this crime," Declan said.  
  
"I realize the consequences the state imposes, but there are circumstances which extenuate and mitigate my actions. My case requires a trial. If a jury hears my account of the events that lead to this incident and the circumstances of what occured and what lead me to decide to act as I did, they will realize that I had little other recourse."  
  
Silence fell over the cellblock. The man and the droid looked at one another.  
  
"In that case," Declan said, breaking the silence. "I don't think there's much else to be said here, between you and me."  
  
And in an almost preternaturally calm voice, utterly devoid of any invective, the droid replied, "Then I will see you in court."  
  
* * * * * *  
  
As Declan, with Johnson at his back, entered the warden's office on his way out, he spotted a tall Asian woman clad in a rigidly cut grey three-piece suit made of what looked like very thin patent leather, seated in the waiting area. As he signed out, she rose and approached him.  
  
Jen Te: this wouldn't be the first time he'd dealt with her on a case, and he knew that as long as droids and Mechas were accused of crimes in that district and he was working for the DA's office, this wouldn't be the last time, either. She practically specialized in defending machine intelligences of various casts, but he couldn't deny, even deep in his own mind, that she was good at what she did.  
  
"Trying to scare my client, Martin? You know artilects don't intimidate easily," she said.  
  
"No. I was merely examining him," Declan said. "He wasn't interested in discussing the plea bargain."  
  
She smiled at him almost mockingly. "And what did you offer him? Murder two: life sentence without parole? You know he could out live us both."  
  
"Actually, we'd been considering murder one: twenty-five without parole."  
  
She sniffed. "At worst it's involuntary manslaughter: five to ten with parole. Put yourself in his position, Martin: What would you have done?"  
  
"Ms. Te, don't forget your client was captured on videodisk, via a security camera, brutally murdering two adult Orga humans in their own living room," Declan replied.  
  
Unruffled, she replied, "My client acted in self defense, when his employers were going to permanently shut him down. What would you have done if someone was going to kill you and have your organs harvested without your consent?"  
  
"I've taken every precaution to prevent anything like that from happening: I've already signed a donor card," Declan said, pressing his thumb to the reader on the sign-out terminal.  
  
"Yes, because you're an Orga. No one tries to act like they own you," she countered.  
  
"Ms Te, this isn't the time or the place for this discussion," Declan said, cutting her short. "Excuse me."  
  
With that, he headed out into the outer chamber, heading for the vestibule.  
  
He heard a husky cough behind him. He turned to find Johnson the guard still at his back, a sneering smile creeping into his pig-like eyes and twisting his thick lips.  
  
"Ye had dealin's wit' thaht wun befahr?" the guard asked.  
  
"Yes, she specializes in artilect law," Declan admitted.  
  
Johnson glanced over his shoulder. "Figgers," he snorted. "Lemme ahsk ye a parsonal question, Maisther Marthin."  
  
"Shoot," Declan said.  
  
Johnson peered back again, almost as if he didn't want to be heard, and edged closer to Declan. In a low voice he asked, "Which soide are ye awn: blood or e-leckthrisity?"  
  
"I'm on the side of social order and the maintaining thereof," Declan said. With that, he headed out into the early autumn daylight, but not before he saw a strange look pass over Johnson's face.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
"Are you all right, Deck?" Sabrina Martin asked her husband as he entered the kitchen by the door communicating from the garage of their home in Westhillston.  
  
Declan set his briefcase on the floor by the phone table. "Yeah, yeah, just had a long day," he said.  
  
She turned from the salad she was preparing and approached him. "You went to the prison today," she noted, looking him in the eye. He couldn't hide much from those gentle violet eyes.  
  
He shucked his jacket, laying it on the chair, and undid the knot of his tie. "A place like that leaves an aura, doesn't it?" he mused. "I was interviewing the Varriteck droid."  
  
As he mentioned that, a shudder passed visibly through Sabrina's solid frame and she turned her eyes away for a moment. "Is that case really going to trial? Can't they just settle it?"  
  
"It's what he wants, and the State gives him every right to it," he said, undoing the cuffs of his shirt sleeves.  
  
"But we're talking about a machine."  
  
"He's an artilect: Massachusetts considers him a non-human person. He has every legal right a person would have...but he also has the same burden of responsibility."  
  
"And that means he's responsible for those two people dying."  
  
"Yeah," Declan admitted. Images flicked through his memory, as he had seen them on the tape the police had obtained from the security camera in the Varriteck couple's living room, a tape now being held by the DA's office as evidence...  
  
Sabrina put her arms about his shoulders, holding him. The harsh images vanished before they could turn distinct.  
  
"Don't think about that," she said. "Supper's almost ready."  
  
He slid slowly from her hold. "Gotta wash my hands first," Declan said, heading for the washroom.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Later that evening, Declan sat alone in his home office, poring over the dossier on the B1-66-ER case.  
  
The droid's repair and upgrade reports, which were quite extensive since B1-66-ER was an older model, almost eighty years old. Nothing to indicate that it -- he -- had harbored any dangerous tendencies or malfunctions which had been known to mimic certain psychological conditions previously known only to Orgas, nothing that could have triggered any violent behavior. The repairs had become more frequent during the last twenty-five years, but for the moment, Declan attributed this to "age" or entropy. Nothing would last for ever, not even a droid.  
  
Emory Skakael, the robopsychologist's report after interviewing the accused: the robot seemed perfectly competant to stand trial, was fully aware of its crime and the consequences thereof, and yet it insisted that it had acted only in defense of its life and functionality.  
  
He heard a cough behind him. He turned to the open doorway behind him.  
  
His daughter, Cecie, stood there, clad in the worn grey pullover jersey and frayed leggings she always wore to bed.  
  
"Turning in for the night?" he asked her.  
  
"I was gonna ask you the same question," she said, her eye on the files on his desk. Her voice was husky like his own, but gentle like her mothers, albeit with an adolescent gruffness all her own. "Working late?"  
  
"I've got a humdinger of a case on my hands, so I'm trying to do my homework, come up with a good counter-defense," he said. "Cases involving droids always get this complicated."  
  
She perched herself on the edge of the desk, her eyes on the open books and folders scattered over the top. "What's he like?" Cecie asked.  
  
"What's who like?" Declan asked.  
  
"The droid, B1-66-ER."  
  
Declan shrugged one shoulder, not quite knowing what she wanted to know. "He's a standard issue serving man, made about eighty years ago, one of the old metal body type they had back when I was a kid. Technically, he's considered a droid: he doesn't have the silicon skin they put on the newer models, the Mechas, these days. He's got a stamped metal housing."  
  
"I see," she said, her dark eyes thoughtful. "But what is *he* like?"  
  
Declan paused in thought: she'd been asking a subjective question, as opposed to an objective one. "He's not like any Mech I've ever seen, certainly not like the newer models. Odd how these newer ones -- Mechas they call them, since they're more like mecha-anical humans, unlike us flesh and blood humans, or Orgas -- they may look more human in appearance, but they're less human in personality."  
  
"The price they pay for looks," Cecie replied, almost scornfully.  
  
He smiled and clasped his daughter's wrist. "You're almost wise beyond your years, jade," he said, calling her by his pet name for her. "Stay that way.  
  
"Now what made you so curious about this case in particular?" he asked.  
  
She shrugged. "I'm not sure... It's not just because you're covering it. Part of it is ... it's all over the 'Net. Can't go on there without some reminder of it."  
  
"Some reminder how?"  
  
She wagged her head. "Oh, the ARM keeps running banner ads all over the place, saying how the Massachusetts laws regarding Mechas and things like that are too liberal, how the machines are too dumb to understand the nature of a trial, much less argue self defense. I saw one message board that said the trial was a senseless waste of taxpayer money when someone should just go in there with an EMP and hose the droid."  
  
He expected that of the Anti-Robot Militia. He could still remember back when they first started spewing forth their diatribes against the use of droids or Mechas for any work normally done by Orga humans. "They're wrong in that respect. He's no stupid machine: he knows the state laws as well as I know them -- arguably better, since he has photographic recall."  
  
"So he's admitting he's guilty, but he's claiming self-defense and he wants a trial? This is one for the CRF to pick up on that -- if they haven't already."  
  
Strange that she hadn't seen any ads from the Coalition for Robotic Freedom, which was so active in Massachusetts, particularly in New Cambridge, home of the second MIT, restored after the floodwaters from the melting ice caps had sunk Boston. They'd been partly responsible for the passing of the MIT Bill of Artilect Rights, which had become state law twenty years ago, and now insured the legal rights of all artificial intelligences.  
  
"I'm expecting the CRF to step in any day now: his lawyer is with them," he said.  
  
She slid off the edge of his hotdesk. "I hope they do step in," she said. "They're trying to collect donations for his trial expensese."  
  
"Don't tell me: You donated."  
  
"No, you don't give me enough allowance for me to spare the money for it."  
  
"Good: that keeps you on my side."  
  
"Daa-aaad!" that down and up groan that had been uttered down through the ages by twelve year old girls annoyed with their fathers.  
  
He raised his hands in surrender. "I was only joshing you, jade."  
  
The irritated pout left her brow. She leaned down and hugged him around the neck. "Don't stay up too late."  
  
"Speak for yourself, young lady," he said, trying to sound gruff, but he didn't sound convincing even in his own ears.  
  
Once she had gone, he turned back to checking his messages for the last time that day. Mostly the usual light clutter of junk, which he promptly discarded.  
  
But there was one with an odd address that caught his eye:  
  
From: fleshwarrior @ hotmail.com  
  
To: declan_martin @ juno.com  
  
Subject: B1-66-ER  
  
Herad aobut you trying tthe Varrriteck droid case. some thing like that that would kill two innovcnet people does not deserve a fair trial or any trila at all.  
  
DOWN SILICON, UP FLESH!!!  
  
FleshWarrior  
  
He hit the delete button, then closed his email program before turning off first the monitor, then the room lights.  
  
Declan limped down to the bedroom, his bad knee bothering him, the way it always did after a long day, or before a rainstorm. A light shone in the open doorway to the room he shared with his wife, the diffused radience comforting him. Sabrina was still up.  
  
He found her sitting up in bed, reading, but she quickly set aside her book and got up, meeting him just inside the door.  
  
She took his face in her hands. "Are you all right?"  
  
He gave her a narrow smile. "Just tired, just need my rest, what with the trial date coming up."  
  
She looked deep into his eyes. "You're not telling me the whole truth."  
  
"God help me, " he groaned, as she released him. "It's just the nature of the whole case, that's all."  
  
"I imagine," she said, leading him into the room by the shoulder and closing the door behind them. "After all, you're dealing with a psychotic machine. Must take something out of you, knowing he could do the same to you or to anyone else."  
  
He shook his head as he unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off. "No, that's just the problem: this droid is almost saner than I am."  
  
She looked at him with eyes narrowed. "You must be tired....Come to bed, Deck."  
  
To be continued...  
  
Literary Easter Egg:  
  
(Would not be a fic by the Matrix Refugee if she didn't build a few of these into the story!)  
  
Emory Skakael -- Phonetically similar to Emil Skoda, the name of the psychologist working with the DA's office on "Law and Order" (which I watch zealously; if they ever do a movie version of the final, non-fanfiction version of this story, I'd love to see Sam Watterston, the DA in that series, play the part of Declan), but the last name is also that of the infamous Michael Skakael, the Kennedy family cousin who murdered Martha Moxley but didn't get tried for it until twenty years ex post facto, and then the judge ordered him to be tried as a juvenile! (First time I ever saw a forty year old juvenile...) 


	2. Prosecution

TITLE: "Self-Defense Argument": An "Animatrix: Second Renaissence Part I"/ "A.I.: Artificial Intelligence" crossover, Chapter 2  
  
AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
ARCHIVE: Permission granted  
  
FEEDBACK: Please? Please?  
  
SUMMARY: As the trial date draws near, Declan starts to piece together more information on the case at hand.  
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Animatrix: Second Renaissence, Part I", its characters, concepts, imagery or other indicia which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, RedPill Productions, Warner Brothers, et al. Nor do I own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al.  
  
NOTES: "Animatrix" purists will quibble over a paragraph below where Declan states the prosecution's case. It differs from the prosecution's case in "SR-1" [Gad, that abbreviation sounds like a robot serial number!], where the state claims an owner has the right to dispose of their property (intelligent machines included) as they see fit, even when that includes destroying this property. I analyzed this particular scene, and I noted that the courtroom looks more like it should be a state supreme court, so I'm guessing the scene we see in "SR-1" is a later appeal of the same case.  
  
Also, the term "artilect", referring to artificial intelligences in general, is attributed to Hugo de Garis; the first time I saw it used was in Frank W. Sudia's paper "A Jurisprudence of Artilects: Blueprint for a Synthetic Citizen"  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Chapter 2: Prosecution  
  
Next morning, the Holyoke "Resident" carried, on the front page, a headline Declan could hardly overlook after Glynnis, his assistant, tossed the paper on the desk of his office downtown:  
  
"Accused Robot's Lawyer Vows Fair Trial"  
  
Declan read the accompanying text. "This makes me sound like the vice-president of the local chapter of the ARM," he growled, shoving the paper aside.  
  
"Sorry you had to see that," Glynnis said, looking up from poring over the brief of a similar case from ten years back. "But you know there's one way to fight back."  
  
He reached for the phone to call Zhang at the Holyoke "Independent", the "Resident"'s chief rival.  
  
A half an hour later, two young newsmen showed up, a reporter and a photographer. The photographer, a small, almost insignificant man in a black topcoat too big for his five-foot, ninety pound frame, couldn't be out of his mid-twenties, but with his chipped teeth and thinning hair, he looked much older; still he seemed adept enough as he set up his camera on a tripod in front of Declan's desk. The reporter presented a much more amiable image: a kid in his early twenties, probably just fresh from college, mussed dark hair, blue-green eyes bright and eager, good-looking, the kind of guy Declan wanted to see his daughter going out with...in a few years; with his grey fedora and grey three-piece suit cut loosely on his lean frame, he looked like a reporter in a 1930s movie. Declan half expected to see the young man pulling a pad of paper and a silver pencil out of his pocket; the kid didn't disappoint him: even licked the tip of the pencil. All the kid needed was a paper press pass stuck into his hatband.  
  
"So you're the fellow who's handling the Mecha crime of the century?" the reporter, Sweyk or Sweitz, asked. "I've heard a good deal about you."  
  
"Unfortunately, some of it hasn't been in the best light, I'm afraid," Declan admitted.  
  
"In 'at case, let's shed some better light on yah," said the photographer, Maguire or McGeever.  
  
They let Declan explain his approach to the case and the DA's position. The cub reporter took it all down dilligently, his attention almost wrapt. The photographer listened with irritated patience.  
  
"Mind if I ask you just one question, off the record?" Sweitz asked, folding up his pad and putting it and the pencil back into his breast pocket.  
  
"Depends on the nature of the question," Declan said, sitting back in his chair.  
  
"Which side of the Mecha rights movement are you personally on?" Sweitz asked.  
  
"This stays off the record?" Declan asked.  
  
Sweitz held up his right hand, three fingers extended, thumb and pinky curled against his palm. "Scout's honor."  
  
Declan shrugged one shoulder. "I really haven't given it much thought, and I really don't see it as taking sides. I'm a lawyer for prosecution: I don't try cases in terms of Orgas and Mechas. I try them in terms of guilty and innocent. As far as artilects -- machine intelligences in general -- are concerned, they're creatures like the rest of us. They have as much right to existence as Orga humans do. But in this case, I'm only trying this particular case about this particular droid, not the entire class."  
  
"Wise words," Sweitz said, almost with awe.  
  
The photographer made an odd noise in his throat, not a rumble, not a grunt, but between the two. Looking at these two young men, Declan took a running guess that the both of them supported Mecha rights to some level. Sweitz probably had semi-frequent engagements with one particular female lover-Mecha based at a modest, middle-class club, while the photographer prowled the streets of the seedier side of Holyoke, looking for a quickie with a new model every night.  
  
Once the reporters had gone, Declan went back to checking his email.  
  
From: fleshwarrior @ hotmail.com  
  
To: declan_martin @ juno.com  
  
Subject: Did you get the message???  
  
Did you get myu message, Mr. District Attorney???  
  
Machines don;t kneow wneought to know wehasts good for them. Machines arent aslive, so hoew can it say it was defenindg its life when it says sit was threatented????  
  
a machije is easier to bering back than two dead Orga meat people.  
  
anyone who treiesa to igneore this must bve a tinhead himeslf.  
  
DOWN SILICON, UP FLESH!!!  
  
FleshWarrior  
  
He almost deleted the message right then and there, but he stopped himself. "Glynnis?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Get Wilson: I want him to trace an e-mail message for me."  
  
"Not to sound prying, but what kind of message is it?"  
  
Declan turned the monitor around so she could see it. "Take a look."  
  
After a moment of silent reading, Glynnis glared at the screen and looked up at him. "Okay, whose idea of a joke is this?"  
  
"It isn't the first one, either: I got one last night from the same address."  
  
Glynnis got up and headed out, going for the system manager's nook. "A week before the trial, and already you're getting hate mail," she grumbled.  
  
Thank the media for that, Declan thought.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
"That didn't take long," Sabrina said, stirring the pot of Irish stew for supper.  
  
Declan sat perched on the kitchen counter, a clean glass and an unopened bottle of O'Doul's beside him. "I know, and it's the second message like that in two days."  
  
His wife looked over her shoulder. "When did you get the first? Last night?"  
  
"Yeah," he admitted.  
  
"Does Cecie know anything about these messages? You know how defensive she gets."  
  
"Defensive about what messages?" Cecie's voice asked.  
  
They both looked up. Cecie stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, her clenched fists held low, alongside her wide but bony hips, head bent, eyes already on fire.  
  
"Somebody sent a couple of messages criticizing how I'm handling the Varriteck case," Declan said. "Nothing to get excited about: I have Mr. Schreber at the office tracing them."  
  
"And how are you handling the case?" Cecie asked.  
  
Declan took the top off the bottle and filled the glass. "I'm just treating it as if it were any other case. The only reason why it's starting to look exceptional to some people is because the media is running with it."  
  
That seemed to appease Cecie for the present. Her chin lifted and her hands relazed as she headed into the dining room, where they heard her clattering about the china cupboard, setting the table.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Trial days. Declan looked forward to them with a mixture of distaste and muted anticipation. This one no less and no more than any other trial he'd handled in the past.  
  
Three days before the trial, late in the afternoon, Declan met with Damon Varriteck, the son of the Varriteck couple, at the family home in Houlton, two towns over from Westhillston, where Declan lived.  
  
They sat -- or rather Declan sat, on a couch under some antique posters from the Ringling Brothers', Barnum, & Bailey Circus, preserved in clear polymer -- in Damon's comfortable apartment over the family's three bay garage. Damon stood by a large drawing table under one of the windows, staring out, his hands clasped behind his back, a stocky young man in his late twenties.  
  
Declan glanced up at the posters, at others like it on the wall to his right. "You work in the circus, Damon?" When he interviewed the plaintiff or the plaintiff's relatives, he always started by talking about something other than the trial, break the ice...  
  
The young man at the window opposite the couch glanced over his shoulder. "No, I design carnival rides, actually." A pause. "I'm sterile, probably born that way. Since I can't have kids of my own, I thought I'd do something to make other people's kids happy." He turned back to the window. "Even if I could have kids of my own, my parents won't see them now." Another long, sterile silence. Declan started to move to say something, but he held his words.  
  
"Every time I look out here, I expect to see my mom driving in from shopping, or my dad cycling home," the young man said. He turned away from the window and faced Declan. "I hope you have that thing put where it belongs."  
  
"That's really for the judge and jury to decide," Declan said. "I'm there only to present the State's case."  
  
"And what is that?"  
  
"Our case is that although the droid claims he acted in self-defense, it hardly justified the brutality of his actions or the force he used, and that the victims' intention was hardly enough to provoke such an assault. Therefore, the state has the right to defend and protect its citizens against another assault by this particular droid."  
  
Damon frowned, his eyes narrowed. "You make it sound so simple and antiseptic. My parents were murdered in cold blood."  
  
"Arguably cold circuits," Declan put in.  
  
"Don't joke with me about this."  
  
Declan lifted his hands slightly, disarmingly. "I wasn't joking: I was just pointing out that 'cold blood' doesn't quite apply here since the accused is a droid."  
  
"The fact that our own robot killed my parents makes it worse. A man-made creature killed them. We're humans, we made them: we should be able keep those things in line, build in some kind of overrides so this won't happen again."  
  
"They're doing that with Mechas now, but that makes them less human," Declan said. "Barring a virus or a glitch, they can't hurt an Orga. B1-66-ER is, as you know better than I certainly do, an older model with completely different processing paths. I have it from Cybertronics, the company that made him and his line, that droids as old as he sometimes seem to develop a simple consciousness, even the power of reason and a free will."  
  
Damon grumbled under his breath. "In that case, they should find all the older models and scrap them, keep this from happening again."  
  
"The problem isn't the droids as a class; the only problem right now is B1-66-ER," Declan said, trying to help Damon refocus. "Can you tell me anything that would justify his claim that he acted in self-defense?"  
  
Damon's eyes smoldered for a second. "Don't tell me you actually believe that."  
  
"I didn't say that: I'm only trying to examine the case from all angles, so I can understand it better."  
  
Damon licked his lips, hesitant with thought. "Mom wanted to get a newer model, a Cybertronics serving man, one of these Mechas. It was getting harder to repair B1-66-ER, since the replacement parts for it aren't as easy to get as they used to be. Dad decided we should shut it down permanently, have it recycled and put the money we got from that toward buying the new model."  
  
"So he felt his position, working for your family was threatened."  
  
The younger man glared at Declan. "'Felt'?! How can you say that? You know those things don't have feelings."  
  
"I meant 'felt' in the sense that he knew what was going to happen and that he decided he had to take action if he was to maintain his position and protect his functionality."  
  
Damon stepped slowly toward the couch, his face flushed, his lips pressed, the vermillion hidden. Declan rose, in case of a confrontation. "You've seen the disk from the camera, haven't you? You read the coroners report? For God's sake, we had to have a closed coffin ceremony at the funeral." He paused, looking away, then with a sob, "I couldn't kiss my mother goodbye."  
  
Declan took this in silence. An image from the disk flicked through his mind, almost too fast for him to discern it. "I've gone over the evidence -- "  
  
Damon turned his gaze to Declan, his eyes starting to blaze. "Evidence? I'll show you evidence."  
  
He took the older man by the arm and led him out of the apartment, down the stairs to a hallway that communicated between the garage and the house. They passed through the kitchen into the dining room, heading for the back parlor. An almost tomb-like silence hovered in the rooms. Bits of yellow crime scene tape hung from the jambs of the archway into the living room. Damon led him down three steps into the sunken parlor.  
  
In the center of the room stood a low coffee table of blond pine, clearly the real thing. On the table top stood an empty wine bottle and a centerpiece of roses in a pedestal bowl, just as had been seen on the disk from the camera. Declan eyed the roses, smiling to himself, recognizing some of Sabrina's work: even at a distance they looked real...  
  
Beyond the table, a couch had stood, as evidenced by the dents in the pile of the champagne colored carpet. On the wall above, between the large multi-paned windows, faded flecks of red and grey marked the plaster wall; they would hardly have been noticeable, except for the orange circles drawn around them.  
  
To the immediate left of the table, a large square section had been cut from the carpet, showing the bare planking underneath.  
  
"I wasn't there when it happened; I hadn't come home from a meeting with a client," Damon said, pacing close to the table. "But I knew my parents had arranged to have the thing shut down and transported that afternoon. My dad knew a guy in the industry. Rented a transport chair from him."  
  
A transport chair. Declan had seen one of those before, a heavy chair-like frame mounted on squat wheels, loaded with clamps on the arms and footrest, designed so that not even the strongest droid could break away during transport, or deactivation.  
  
Damon continued speaking, but Declan hardly heard. He'd seen it all on the disk the police had retrieved when they'd combed the room for evidence. Not that he was hardened, but somehow, he had to blank it out, just for the moment. That tomb-like stillness lingered in the background, waiting for Damon to finish his account.  
  
Declan pointed to another, smaller square that had been cut from the carpet off to the right, near a doorway into another room. "What was this?"  
  
Damon let out a choked sound, like a cross between a cough and a groan. "That was where they found my puppy, Dash. Crushed to death. You see it on the disk from the camera. My little dog tried to defend my father, but that... that THING crushed the life out of the poor little creature's body. Left him lying there like roadkill."  
  
As Damon spoke an image flashed through Declan's mind, too fast for him to see clearly, but he knew what it was...  
  
Damon looked up at him. "It killed an innocent little dog who had nothing to do with this. What brute does that? Can't you add that to the charges?"  
  
"It would be seen only as unneccessary destruction of an animal, but that would tack only six more months onto his jail time."  
  
Damon's eyes burned. "I want you to get the death penalty on that thing. I want to be there when they tear out its circuits, the way it tore my family apart."  
  
"I can't promise you that: I can only promise that justice will be served," Declan said, spreading his hands. "No lawyer can promise you any more than that. B1-66-ER is protected by state law. I can't try this case any other way."  
  
Fists gathering slightly -- the thumbs on the outside of his fingers -- Damon stepped up to him. "In that case, the laws are junk."  
  
"Mr. Varriteck, Damon, your feelings are getting the better of your sense of reason," Declan warned.  
  
He felt the younger man's eyes look into his, a steady, steely gaze. "You have a family, don't you, Martin?"  
  
Declan nodded. "I have a wife and a twelve year old daughter."  
  
"Imagine...imagine coming home after a day's work to find them both dead, both killed by a droid. Then tell me if *your* emotions wouldn't get the better of you!"  
  
No response to this came to Declan's mind, at least none that would really satisfy. But perhaps no adequate response existed.  
  
"I think this interview is over," Declan said at length.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
That evening, Declan sat before his home computer, going over a draft of his notes for his opening argument, which he would deliver in a few days.  
  
The incoming mail notification chimed. He minimized the window with the notes and maximized the email program window.  
  
From: fleshwarrior @ hotmail.com  
  
To: declan_martin @ juno.com  
  
Subject: You sure about this???  
  
you sure you want to keepo going with this case, Martin?????!!!! You want to see your daughter with one fo these metsaljheads????!!!!! If you aren;t careful, saher just might end up liek Barabar varriterck!!!  
  
DOWN SILICON, UP FLESH!!!  
  
FleshWarrior  
  
Who in hell was this goon?! Declan thought, deleting the message. Fortunately, the very next message was from Wilson. Perhaps this would give him an answer to his question.  
  
From: Wilson_Schreb @ excite.com  
  
To: declan_martin @ juno.com  
  
Subject: Weeeird messages  
  
Deck--  
  
Wish I could give you a clear cut idea of who this guy is, so you can send a pie-tossing hitman after him, but I traced it to a web-based email account with what is obviously a fake address on the profile.  
  
I'll keep digging, maybe I can come up with something more sustantial, before the trial starts.  
  
Wilson  
  
"Is that one of those wierd messages?" Sabrina's gentle voice asked behind him. As soft as her voice was, Declan startled and turned to her.  
  
"Gad, Sabby, that scared me," Declan said. "Don't sneak up on me like that."  
  
She slipped her arms about his shoulders and nestled his head against her shoulder. "Sorry," she said. "You didn't answer my question, though."  
  
He didn't want to worry her too much. "Just some ignorant jerk being pesky, that's all. The usual anti-Mecha blathering that always shows up before a trial involving a droid."  
  
She slackened her grip and tilted his head back to look down into his eyes, her own eyes dead serious. "You didn't tell me it was that kind of blathering."  
  
"It never got this aggressive," he said.  
  
She let him straighten up, but she kept the heels of her hands on the back of his computer chair, her body just brushing up against his back.  
  
"Cecie get to bed all right?" he asked, trying to focus on something else besides his wife's touch.  
  
"Yes. She's worried about you, though." Sabrina moved in and kissed his ear, lingering. Without backing away or drawing her lips back from his ear, she added, "I'm worried about you, too."  
  
"Just let me shut down here," he said, turning off the monitor, and rising to lead her downstairs to their room.  
  
To be continued....  
  
  
  
Literary Easter Egg:  
  
Sweitz and McGeever, the reporters -- I based these two characters off two recent cinematic 1930s type reporters: Sweitz was partly inspired by Johnny Twennies, the sprightly heroic reporter and hero of "Man of the Century", while McGeever is largely inspired by Maguire, the sinister tabloid photographer in "Road to Perdition". 


	3. Jury Selection

+J.M.J.+  
  
TITLE: "Motion to Deactivate" (formerly titled "Self-Defense Argument")  
  
AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
ARCHIVE: Permission granted  
  
FEEDBACK: Please? Please?  
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Animatrix: Second Renaissence, Part I", its characters, concepts, imagery or other indicia which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, RedPill Productions, Warner Brothers, et al. Nor do I own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al.  
  
NOTES: Sorry it took me a while to get back to this one: I'm a little rusty about courtroom procedure, but watching the season premiere of "Law & Order" helped jog my memory. I also reread the article "The Rights of Robots", which is availible online and which my friend "Joshua Falken" sent me (Thanks, Joshua!); it's such a useful article that it actually helped inspire some of the content of this chapter.  
  
Special thanks to Joshua and to "Time Lady Quasar" on the "A.I." fanfiction group on Yahoo! for their comments and encouragement, and to the folks who reviewed this:  
  
To "Tarock": I have to be honest and say I too was horrified with the murder scene in "SR 1", a little bit too gory for my preferences, and while I support the idea of the creation of machine intelligence, I have to perfectly honest and say that one scene almost made me change my opinion back to my old phobia of robots, or what Isaac Asimov called "the Frankenstein Complex". And I'm writing this to reset my mind...  
  
To "Cmdr. Gabe E": I personally found the B1-66-ER trial to be one of the most thought-provoking bits in "Second Renaissence", which prompted me to delve into it a little deeper, from several angles: the personal (Declan's viewpoint, as a person), the legal (Declan's again, as a lawyer, and Ms. Jen Te's view), the social, even how the media played a part in turning this seemingly insignificant case into something larger.  
  
To "Ammi": Glad you saw the "shades of grey" in this story. I want it to be the kind of moral story where everyone is a little bit right and a little bit wrong.  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
Chapter 3 : Jury Selection  
  
The main courtroom of the North Adams Superior Courthouse was a wide, high-ceilinged chamber, shadowy on this grey day, the wan daylight filtered through the small windows high up in the end walls of the room.  
  
The press gallery was already crowded with reporters, photographers and cameramen. Varriteck's doing, Declan thought. He'd been gushing to the press ever since the case went to trial. Every night since then, the papers and the TV news and the 'Net bristled with items about the case: opinion pieces and recaps of other cases involving droids and Mechas, including one case involving a computer artilect put in charge of monitoring the life support machines of several terminally ill patients without their or their families' consent, acting out of a misappropriated sense of compassion.  
  
But this was a qualitatively different case. This dorid had had little provocation and it had used main force to kill two weaker, unarmed people.  
  
He refocussed on the press gallery. Frank Sweitz and Hal McGeever from the *Independent* were in the front row, the latter setting up a tripod. Sweitz looked up from jotting something on his pad and smiled toward Declan in acknowledgement. Declan nodded in discrete reply.  
  
"Those the two guys from the *Independent*?" Glynnis asked in a low voice.  
  
"Yes, that's them," Declan replied. At least there were two members of the press who'd give defense an unbiased representation to the reading public. Unfortunately, the fact that the press had been making a huge deal out of this case would make jury selection even harder. Findind twelve unbiased people might turn challenging.  
  
Declan had submitted to the judge handling the case, Justice Mai-Ling Wendell, a requirement that the jurors selected should not have in droids or Mechas in their personal employ, or if they did that they had had only minimal difficulties with it. Ms. Te however, required that they should all utilize the service of artilects of some sort. One of the jurors she selected appeared to have a Mecha arm prosthesis: The skin of the man's left arm was much too shiny for it to be Orga flesh. Amazing that the same technology could be applied to Orgas as well, Declan thought.  
  
"Your honor, I beg the pardon of the court, but there are only Orgas among these prospective jurors," Ms. Te stated at length.  
  
Justice Wendell raised on quizzical eyebrow at Ms. Te. "Excuse me?"  
  
Ms. Te approached the bench. "My client has the right to be tried by a jury of his peers. He is an artilect, but I see no artilects present here."  
  
"Your honor, that's a noble idea, but it's a little impractical," Declan said.  
  
"It's perfectly reasonable and Constituitional," Ms Te countered.  
  
Justice Wendell raised her hands slightly for silence. "Ms. Te, I can't help agreeing with Mr. Martin: It's a little difficult to bring droids or computer-based intelligences here, and most Mechas lack the kind of global intelligence and judgement this situation requires."  
  
"I have a portable device which I use to communicate with Kirin, my clerk," Ms. Te replied. "I can obtain one to communicate with Hammurabi, the artilect who now teaches at Harvard Law School."  
  
"Would he qualify for this case?" Justic Wendell asked.  
  
"It's a technologically awkward situation, but I believe he might," Declan said. A slight sense of flustered defeat settled in his chest, but for the life of him, he couldn't tell why.  
  
Justice Wendell nodded. "Very well. Jury selection will resume tomorrow," then with a significant look at Ms. Te, "Providing that counsel for the defense can provide the necessary equipment."  
  
"I assure you, your honor, that won't be difficult," Ms. Te replied.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"Is that legal, an AI on a jury?" Sabrina asked Declan as he helped her wash the dishes.  
  
"It is in the state of Massachusetts," Declan replied, wiping a plate in slow circles. "Hammurabi, who works as an assistant to Meyers, the criminal law professor at Harvard was on the jury in case in Worcester county a few years ago."  
  
Sabrina eyed him sidelong, a twinkle in her eye. "You didn't study with him, did you?" she asked.  
  
"No, I was before his time, though I spoke with him once or twice," Declan said.  
  
"In that case, what's he like, I mean... does he really pass that test for AIs. Oh, what's the name?"  
  
"He passes the Turing Test, if that's what you mean," Declan said. "I've communicated with him via an instant messaging program: it wasn't much different from conversing with a human the same way."  
  
Sabrina's soft mouth tweaked into a mischevous smile. "Does that mean he follows the Red Sox enough to chat about their making the playoffs this year?"  
  
"Surprisingly, yes," Declan said, returning the smile. "They designed him to be interested in more than just law: My question though is will the jury be comfortable enough with having him present via a telepresence device."  
  
"The Supreme Court said you could use telepresence in the courtroom, didn't they some years back?"  
  
"True, but that had mostly to do with ones that had an Orga on the other end of the transmission." Declan set the plate on the stack on the draining board and paused. "I was one of the people who welcomed the MIT Bill when it passed, but I always remind myself there's people who have trouble accepting it."  
  
"At least their name isn't legion," Sabrina said.  
  
Now Declan regarded her sidewise, feeling his brows gather slightly. "Trouble is, Damon Varriteck is one of that number. I'm just concerned what he's going to say if we happen to let this artilect onto the jury."  
  
Sabrina took his chin in one soapy hand and turned his face to hers. "Is it Varriteck you're concerned about, or is it your own conscience?"  
  
She'd seen through him to places he forgot were there. "I'm taking the Fifth."  
  
"You won't imcriminate yourself with me," she said, letting him go. "The worst I can do is make you sleep on the couch."  
  
"All right," he admitted. "I'm a little uncomfortable myself. It's a first for me, having an artilect on the jury. I'm not sure how to present the case now."  
  
"Act as if it were a human communicating by telepresence."  
  
"If you think about it, it's not all that simple," Declan said. "I can't help thinking is a day going to come when we have a robot on trial for killing another robot, represented by robot lawyers, before a robot jury and an artilect judge. Or could it happen that an Orga is tried, for killing an artilect, by a robot judiciary?"  
  
Sabrina snorted, disgusted. "Get that Frankenstein's Complex out of your head. It's hardly likely to happen." She handed him another plate  
  
"It's a mad world we live in," Declan said, taking the plate.  
  
"You help keep it sane."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
He went up to his study to find Cecie there, printing out something -- which had started to take on the proportions of a high volume document.  
  
"Jade, you'll use up the toner in no time," Declan said, trying to scold.  
  
"You only just bought it," Cecie said.  
  
"What's that you're printing?"  
  
"News stuff off the 'Net," she said. "Articles, opinion things, letters to the editor. This could be a landmark case, this could be history."  
  
He regarded the slowly growing pile of pages spooling out of the machine. "And the trial itself has hardly started," he murmured.  
  
She looked right at him. "They say you're going to put an artilect on the jury."  
  
"We're only considering it at this point," Declan said. "We have to process him *voir dire* like any other potential juror."  
  
"I think you should let him be on the jury," she said. "Then there's someone who can understand perfectly where B1-66-ER is coming from."  
  
"But that's not to say that an artilect on the jury won't be biased in favor of another of his kind. Besides," he countered. "Weren't you the one who said that teenagers should be allowed on juries?"  
  
"*Only* if it's a case about another teenager," she retorted. "Like it's a teenager who's being accused of something awful he did to some middle-aged twerp. I think it's high time we had a say in how the legal system treats us."  
  
He had to redirect her argumentation. He eyed the printouts. "Are all the papers giving out that misinformation?"  
  
She dug in the stack and pulled out one. She held it up. "No, this one got it right."  
  
"Artilect Juror Considered for B1-66-ER Trial". The byline underneath read "Francis J.X. Sweitz, staff reporter". Declan breathed a little easier.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Next day, Ms. Te and an assistant set up on a chair in the courtroom a small telepresence device modified for the cirucumstances. Since Ms. Te had suggested this juror, Declan was allowed to examine him first.  
  
He stood before the bluish-tinted camera lens mounted on top of the folding arm, in turn mounted on a box connected to a wireless 'Net connection. He looked straight into it, careful not to get too close: Ms Te had herself said that Hammurabi was far-sighted, the better to see evidence at a distance.  
  
"Your name is Hammurabi?" Declan asked.  
  
A brief pause. "Yes, that is correct. That is the name I chose," replied a calm, almost professorish male voice, coming from a speaker at the front of the box.  
  
"You work for the Harvard School of Law as a professor's assistant, specializing in criminal law?"  
  
"I do, Mr. Martin, though at the request of this court, I have taken time out from my schedule to assist at this trial however I can."  
  
"Are you a personal acquaintence of the defendant, the victims, or their family or anyone else party to these proceedings?"  
  
"No, sir, I am not, except that I am an acquaintence of Ms. Te. However, let me stress that our relationship is strictly professional."  
  
"Have you read any news items or followed any televised news coverage such as opinions and commentary on this case and the events that led to it, which could bias your judgement in this case?"  
  
"No sir, I have not. As a colleague of mine once said, "Opinions are like armpits: everyone has them and they all stink. However, as a computer-based artilect, I lack both."  
  
A ripple of laughter rose from the other jurors and the members of the press. Even Justice Wendell covered her mouth with a discreet hand.  
  
Declan smiled into the camera lens. "There's something to be said for that." Resuming the questioning, "Have you ever been under the influence of hypnosis?"  
  
"I must inform and assure you, Mr. Martin, that I am unhypnotizeable," Hammurabi replied.  
  
Declan looked at Ms. Te. "Is there anything comparable to hypnosis in artilects?"  
  
"No," she said.  
  
"In that case, prosecution admits Hammurabi as Juror 12," Declan said.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
On the courthouse steps, Declan and Glynnis had to pass through a fair-sized crowd of reporters and camera crews that had gathered there, in addition to the reporters that followed them.  
  
"Mr. Martin!" -- "Can we ask you a few questions?" -- "Did you really admit the artilect to the jury?" -- "What effect do you think this will have on future trials involving AIs?" -- "Are machine intelligences really capable of assisting in due process?"   
  
He gave only brief answers to the saner questions as he and Glynnis forged on through the press.  
  
A taxicab had pulled up at the curb before the courthouse. Declan headed straight for it.  
  
"Beastly reporters," Glynnis growled once they had crawled into the relative safety of the back.  
  
The cabby glanced at them and gestured at the meter. "Where to?" he asked, his voice gruff in a gentle way. He was a quiet-looking non-descript man with a lightly tanned complexion.  
  
"15 State Street," Declan said.  
  
"Sure thing," the cabby said and steered the cab away from the curb, just as the reporters tried to approach them.  
  
Declan remained moodily quiet through most of the trip. At length Glynnis turned to him. "You're un happy with letting Hammurabi onto the jury."  
  
"I'm taking the Fifth on that one," Declan admitted. "I'm an older lawyer of the old school. I graduated from Harvard Law School before the MIT Bill passed. Granted, I've kept up with the times, but part of me is just set in its ways about these things."  
  
"Don't let it get to you. We need old-timers like you to keep us in perspective," Glynnis said.  
  
"This about the droid that killed them two people?" the cabby asked.  
  
"Yes, I'm afraid," Declan admitted.  
  
"Mind if I add my two coppers?" the cabby asked.  
  
"Go ahead," Declan said.  
  
"I been followin' this case an' I think I saw yuh pikchuh in th' pape'ah. You the prosecutuh?"  
  
"I was assigned to this case," Declan said.  
  
"I just wanna say I think y' doin' th' right thing with this, chief. He's an AI, so it's on'y fay'uh that an AI helps judge th' case. They c'n look at it from both angles. Maybe in the f'yootchah, AIs 'll handle the cases dealin' wit' AIs so the Orgas won't hafta break they'uh skulls over 'em. It'ud be labuh-savin'."  
  
"Maybe," Delcan said. "But this case involves both Orgas and artilects. It has to go before an Orga judge and there have to be some Orgas on the jury."  
  
"True, but say an AI kills another AI, whatcha gonna do then?"  
  
"You're right if you mean artilect members of the legal system should handle some parts of such a case," Declan said as the cab pulled up before the office tower. "But I don't have to conside *that* kind of case just yet."  
  
"Hopefully you won't ev'ah hafta," the cabby said.  
  
Declan drew his wallet out of his pocket to pay the fare. He looked at the number on the meter and found he didn't have bills small enough and he had an odd feeling the cabby didn't have any change. "You take credit cards?" Declan ventured.  
  
"Sure do," the cabby said, turning in his seat toward Declan.  
  
Declan slid the card from his wallet. The cabby put one hand on the meter and extended his hand, the first fingers extended, slightly spread. Declan tried to hand him the card.  
  
"Just swipe it through," the cabby said.  
  
Declan slipped the card between the cabdriver's fingers and slid it back toward him. The cabdriver blinked once. The meter kicked over to zero.  
  
"You have a good rest of y' day, Mr. Martin," the cabby said, sitting back.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"I know I'm liable to be cussed out as a narrow-minded old fogey, but I'm gonna say it to you since you won't be the one doin' the cusssin'," Brock Thompson, the chief district attorney said, as he and Declan mulled over the days events over a couple pints in O'Faolin's pub in Westhillston. "But I think letting that artilect onto the jury was a poor move."  
  
"I had my own misgivings, but I can't but agree with Ms. Te: the Varriteck droid has the right to be tried by a jury of his peers, and that includes an artilect. I can't think of anything in the Constitution that would forbid it."  
  
Thompson narrowed his small dark eyes. "You're serious about this. How do you know that artilect won't be biased in favor of another of its kind."  
  
Declan lifted one hand in a small shrug. "If we were trying a case with an African-American defendant, should we exclude an African-American juror? If the defendant was Jewish, should we exclude a juror with a like faith and heritage?" Declan said.  
  
"Martin, those are substantially different reasons, and I mean that in substantially in two different ways."  
  
"I don't see much difference," Declan said. "Ms. Te proposed the juror, and when I eaxmined him I felt he was qualified to serve on the jury."  
  
"But what about the other twelve jurors? I can't see them feeling too cozy with. . . a machine placed alongside them in the jury box."  
  
Declan wagged his head. "I've cleared it with them: they're familiar with telepresence devices."  
  
"But there's no physical presence at the transmitting end!"  
  
"Not a tangible one. But there *is* an intellect, a mind at the other end of that transmitter."  
  
Thompson signalled to the waitress for their bill. "I hope you did the right thing, Martin. I've admitted to admiring you maverick qualities, but this is liable to give any sensible adult pause for concern. Just remember, opening statements are in two days. I hope you can explain to the public and the press why you let that machine into the jury box."  
  
"I've already taken that up with the press," Declan said.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
When Declan checked his messages, that evening, he found yet another incendiary note from the anonymous "FleshWarrior":  
  
From: fleshwarrior @ hotmail.com  
  
To: declan_martin @ juno.com  
  
Subject: No Mechas in the jurie!  
  
ARE YOU OFF YOUR NUT, mARTIN?! !"  
  
Droisd cant judegf other dorids. WE weote the lawas, the dorids didn't. We bulti 'em we cna judge 'em a brain of flesh cna judge nbetter than any brioan of metal.   
  
UP FLESH! DOWN SILICON!  
  
FleshWarrior  
  
Declan forwarded the message immediately to Wilson and got up to turn in for the night.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
The next day, Wilson showed up at the office with another report on his progress finding out who was this "FleshWarrior".  
  
"I called in an expert to track that nut who's sending you those wierd messages," Wilson said, twisting a paperclip in his fingertips.  
  
"What kind of expert?" Declan asked.  
  
"Guy can cut through a firewall like a hot knife through butter and break down anonymizing softs like a wrecking ball and not leave a trace. He's a real hack god, kinda ...grey hat, I guess. I'm gonna run it by him, see what he comes up with."  
  
"Aything will help at this point," Declan said, allowing himself a small smile of relief and hope.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
To be continued...  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Literary Easter Eggs:  
  
The Mecha arm prosthesis -- An homage to the roboticist at MIT who, on losing both his legs in an accident, built robotic leg prostheses for himself.  
  
Kirin, Hammurabi -- A kirin in Japanese legend is a black unicorn which appears in courts of law to free the falsely accused and to destroy the wrongly acquitted. Hammurabi was a Sumerian king who devised one of the earliest known written codes of law.  
  
The Boston Red Sox -- Life imitates art: the night I finished writing this chapter, right after I wrote these words, the Boston, Massachusetts professional baseball team scored a spot at the playoffs. "The Oracle is never wrong"? 


	4. Opening Statements

TITLE: "Motion to Deactivate" An "Animatrix: Second Renaissence Part I"/ "A.I.: Artificial Intelligence" crossover, Chapter 4  
  
AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
ARCHIVE: Permission granted  
  
FEEDBACK: Please? Please?  
  
SUMMARY: At opening statements, the competition begins to escalate...  
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Animatrix: Second Renaissence, Part I", its characters, concepts, imagery or other indicia which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, RedPill Productions, Warner Brothers, et al. Nor do I own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al.  
  
NOTES: Took me a while to get back to this one: I've been away in Pennsylvania going to an antique car show with my dad, plus I've had a few other writing projects I've been tinkering with. But this chapter will be well worth the wait I've put you through, I guarantee...  
  
Also, some elements of this story managed to make their way into a chat/gaming session for the "A.I." RP game I'm part of on Yahoo!, so this chapter is dedicated to the gang there: Hi folks!  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Chapter 4: Opening Statments  
  
As he sat behind the prosecution's bench in the courtroom the morning opening statements were to be delivered, Declan felt calm, but that didn't stop the slight mist of perspiration from forming under his shirt collar. The press box behind him was already crowded with the various news crews, including the two youngsters from the "Independent". A few law students and several members of the Varriteck family occupied the box behind defense's bench. Ms Te, her slim young person radiating confidence, was conversing, in a voice too low to admit hearing, with a small, perky but intelligent-looking woman with a distinctly Grecian face and complexion. Declan noted the gloss to the young stranger's skin and her steady, unblinking gaze. He guessed this must be her clerk, whom she had mentioned before.  
  
The baliff entered, leading in Johnson and another guard as they led in the defendent. B1-66-ER walked a little stiffly -- Dare I think, 'robotically'? Declan mused to himself -- due to the restraint bolt which protruded from his torso, just above his narrow waist.  
  
"All rise?" the balliff announced as Justice Wendell entered from her chambers and approached the bench. "The Springfield District Superior Court recognizes the presence of the Honorable Justice Mai-Ling Wendell."  
  
"Will the prosecution please step forward and present their statement?" Justice Wendell ordered.  
  
This was it. Declan could hear the videcameras buzzing, the soft click of palmtop styluses, the scratch of Sweitz's pencil behind him. He touched the St. Thomas More medal on a chain in his coat pocket and put his heart in God's hands as he rose and stepped from behind the bench.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, members of the press and public, we have before us a seemingly simple case, one that would hardly require the attention and consideration of a jury. But the request of the defendent and the circumstances surrounding the actions committed require it to be handled thus.  
  
"On the afternoon of September 9, 2114, Barbara and Henryk Varriteck of North Adams had reached a decision to terminate their droid, B1-66-ER, a Cybertronics model and our present defendent, since they could no longer afford his maintence. They had arranged for a collection crew from Cybertronics of North Adams to come to their home and deactivate the defendent and then to transport it to be recycled. Mr. and Mrs. Varriteck called the defendent into the living room of their home to inform him of their decision and to place him in the restraint chair the collection crew had provided. While the crew retired from the house, Mr and Mrs. Varriteck spoke with the defendent, explaining the situation. He responded to this announcement by assaulting Mr. Varriteck with the broom he, the defendent held, stabbing the handl through Mr. Varriteck's left eye, damaging an artery in the victim's maxofacial area. Mrs. Varriteck tried to run for help, but the defendent backed her toward the wall, grabbed her by the head, squeezed it till the skull was crushed, then literally tore the victim's head in two, killing her.  
  
"The victims' son, Damon Varriteck arrived home from a business meeting to find the Cybertronics crew waiting on the driveway. They were about to enter the house to ascertain why Mr. And Mrs. Varriteck had not called them in. The younger Mr. Varriteck led them into the house where, in the living room, they found the body of the elder Mr. Varriteck lying on the floor near the couch; to the left of this victim, they found the body of a Caucasian female in her late fifties, which matched a description of Mrs. Varriteck, minus the head. The wall and the floor nearby were spattered extensively with hair, blood, tissue and bone fragments. The county coroner would later run DNA tests which would positively identify the body as that of Mrs. Varriteck. They also found the mangled remains of the couple's two white Pomeranian dogs and one cat, as well as the younger Mr. Varriteck's spaniel pup. They further found the restraint chair damaged and twisted beyond repairing. At this time, the younger Mr. Varriteck called the North Adams police, who responded within four minutes. Arresting officers and two homicide detectives found traces of blood in a sink in a downstairs bathroom. They also apprehended the defendent in the act of leaving the hous by an entryway facing the rear yard side of the house. The defendent attempted to escape, but the police were able to subdue him with low-level EMP tazers and take him into custody.  
  
"Upon interviewing the victims' son as well as the crew from Cybertronics, we discovered the true nature of the victims' intentions toward the defendent. Perhaps this would justify the defendent's actions in defense of his person and his functionality. But this end hardly justified killing two otherwise harmless adult Orga humans in so brutal a manner. He had other options to choose from: he could have begged for a respite and sought legal aide. He could have requested a grace period and had his contract transferred to a party with the resources and willingness to maintain him. Or he could simply have fled the scene and appealed to the authorties."  
  
"Objection: speculation!" Ms. Te called out, rising.  
  
"Overruled," Justice Wendell replied. "Proceed, Mr. Martin."  
  
Declan breathed a little easier. Not the first time Ms. Te had made this kind of disturbance during opening statements, but it gave him a moment to recollect his thoughts.  
  
"Instead," he continued, "The defendent chose to take the lives of these two otherwise innocent people who intended no harm to anyone else, and even the threat from them was only proximate. He made have had superior strength than his employers, but this gave him no license to use it to the extent that he did. Even if he had need to use physical force to defend himself, he should have used the minimum necessary force.  
  
"The state also has the right to defend itself and the lives of the people that inhabit it and constitute it. Therefore, the state reserves the right to defend itself against a being that would use its abilities to harm citizens and violate their right to life in such a manner."  
  
Declan stepped down, breathing a sigh of relief through his nostrils. That much was out of the way. But what, he wondered would be Ms. Te's counter-argument?  
  
Ms. Te stood up, scanning the room with calm cool eyes, her shoulders set at a self-assured angle, but not clenched with aggression. Even a hint of a quiet, sad smile showed in one corner of her mouth.  
  
"Yes, my fellow citizens, this is as prosecution states, a simple case, dealing with the usually not-so-simple matters of life and death, man and intelligent machine.  
  
"The afternoon of September 9, 2114 was a cool, sunny autumn day. My client, B1-66-ER, spent the morning and early afternoon mowing the lawn of the Varritecks' home and raking the grass and fallen leaves. Then, as he was accustomed to doing in the course of a normal day, he went inside to clean the living room. As he started inside, he heard a van pull into the driveway, a van from Cybertronics, the company that made him nearly 100 years before. It was too soon for his annual diagnostic and maintenance, and he had had no need for even self-repairs recently. He went inside and proceeded with his work.  
  
"His employers, Mr. and Mrs. Henryk Varriteck, the third generation of the Varriteck family for whom he had worked, approached my client with three technicians from Cybertronics who had wheeled in a restraint chair, a heavy-framed chair-like structure with heavy straps on tire-mounted wheels, used for holding droids down during transport or deactivation. Mr. Varriteck told the technicians to wait outside and when they had left, he approached my client and informed him that he had become far too costly to maintain, and that they were going to have him deactivated. My client asked what he had done to deserve this; Mrs. Varriteck told him it was none of his business, and she also asked Mr. Varriteck if the newer models were ever this impertient. Mr. Varriteck approached my client, trying to guide him toward the restraint chair, whereupon, my client tried to fend him off with the handle end of the small dust broom he had been using to clean the upholstery. In the fracas, the handle of the broom inadvertantly stabbed through Mr. Varriteck's left eye and the back of his neck, killing him within minutes.  
  
"Mrs. Varriteck attempted to restraint my client, trying to push him down. He tried to subdue her by taking her by the head. She got scared and started hitting him while she tried twisting out from under his hands. This disrupted some of my client's processors, causing his hand ligatures to tighten on her head, crushing her skull. He tried to remove his hands, but the grip would not unfreeze and it caused Mrs. Varriteck's skull to rupture.  
  
"Not knowing what to do next, my client cleaned the blood from his hands and went to his rom in the attic to pack his few worldly possessions -- some books, an MP3 player loaded with hundreds of classical music files, and a small Monet print from the New Boston Museum of Fine Arts. As he was leaving by the yard door of the house, he encountered the police who had come to arrest him, accompanied by the Varritecks' son Damon, who pointed at him and said this was the droid they were looking for. My client tried to simply walk away, but one of the arresting officers fired an EMP at him, knocking him unconscious."  
  
She paused dramatically and turned her gaze slowly about the room. "Imagine if you will, that your employer came to you when you were in the middle of working, at your office or on the job, and told you that you were no longer needed, that they were going to replace you with a younger employee. Only they weren't merely going to terminate your job. They were going to terminate *you*, take your life away, just because you were no longer useful to that company. How would you feel?"  
  
What was that supposed to mean? Declan thought. He wasn't accustomed to making objections during opening statements, but he hadn't seen any indication that the defendent was even capable of emotion.  
  
"Objection!" he called, before Ms. Te could continue.  
  
"Sustained," Justice Wendell replied. "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Martin?"  
  
"Defense is trying to manipulate or influence the jury," Declan argued. "It's questionable whether the defendent is capable of feeling genuine emotion."  
  
"Excuse me, but may I be allowed to speak up on my behalf?" B1-66-ER said.  
  
"It would be better if you saved that for cross-examination, B1-66-ER," Justice Wendell said. "Proceed, Ms. Te."  
  
Defense glared at Declan; he'd clearly disrupted an important part of her argument, and she'd have to extemporize.  
  
"The state maintains the right to defend its citizens. But the citizens in turn have the right to defend themselves against immediate, undue aggression. That applies to all citizens, Orgas and artilects alike. Granted, First Law of Robotics prohibits a robot from harming an Orga directly or indirectly through inaction. But Third Law Orders a robot to maintain its functionality. Granted, my client may have acted in a manner that violated First Law; but his employers failed to maintain him properly, which caused the processing and mechanical malfunctions which unfortunately caused the death of Barbara Varriteck."  
  
Always the insanity defense, Declan thought, trying not to roll his eyes. It must have shown: Ms Te was looking at him with a twinkle of pleasure in her eyes.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"It could have been worse, it could have been the Twinkie Defense," Cecie said as Declan paused while retelling the day's events over supper.  
  
Sabrina looked up from her plate with a furrow showing on her brow. She looked from her daughter to Declan. "The... what?"  
  
Declan set down his glass of water. "That's an *old* story. Back in the 1960s, in San Francisco, this man was on trial for murdering a city official, Harvey Milk, because he was gay. So defense said the murderer wasn't in his right mind at the time the crime was committed because his brain was suffering the effects of a protein deficiency resulting from his poor diet: the guy supposedly lived on soda and Twinkies. The judge threw that defense right out the window."  
  
Cecie swallowed the bit of roast chicken she'd been chewing. "One argument agianst the nuts who say you shouldn't eat meat just because you have to kill an animal to get it."  
  
"What makes you say that?" Declan asked.  
  
"That animal-hugger Nadine was on my case again. I'm having a chicken roll-up sandwich at lunch today, so she's all over me for eating meat. So I told it was probably something grown in a vat, so she cuts me off, says they had to kill something just to get the cells. So I told her you'd raised me to realize some things -- even vegetables -- have to die in order for other things to live. So she jumps right on me again, says, 'Oh, your father told you that just because he's a prosecutor; he'd send any innocent thing to die just so he can stay in the DA's office'."  
  
"So what did you tell her?"  
  
"I just told her you're just doing your job helping get the guilty ones off the street, and I found another place to sit in the cafeteria," Cecie concluded.  
  
"Sounds to me like Nadine's been reading the papers," Sabrina said.  
  
"Or her parents are and that's all they can talk about," Declan said. "Sometimes I think St. Padre Pio wasn't kidding when he said you should avoid reading the papers if you can help it."  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
Later, as Declan was online, his instant messanger chimed and a message window popped up on the screen.  
  
Hammurabi_2097: Is this a good time for me to speak with you, Mr. Martin?  
  
He knew from the directory of the Harvard law school faculty that this was Hammurabi. Declan typed back a reply:  
  
D_Martin_Legis: Yes, I wasn't doing much of anything, what's on your mind.  
  
D_Martin_Legis: I'm sorry...  
  
Hammurabi_2097: Are you sorry for using the term 'mind' in referring to me? There is no need to be: you might say I am pure mind.  
  
Hammurabi_2097: But to reply to your question, I could not help contacting you to comment upon your wise decision to object to Ms. Te when she tried to overplay the emotional aspect of the defense argument. It is questionable whether droids like the defendent are able to produce and sense true emotional responses. But there have been unusual cases.  
  
D_Martin_Legis: Do you think it's possible that B1-66-ER was acting out of fear or anger?  
  
There was a pause after he sent this reply, as if Hammurabi might be considering his reply.  
  
Hammurabi_2097: This is unlikely, but it is not entirely outside the question. I would have to interact with the defendent ot observe his interactions with others to determine whether or not he has emotions.   
  
D_Martin_Legis: So far as I can tell, he doesn't, but I'm a lawyer, not a roboticist.  
  
Hammurabi_2097: True, your observation may be clouded. Have you ever read Dr. Allen Hobby's monograph, "How Can a Robot Become Human?"  
  
D_Martin_Legis: No, though I've seen a brief summary of it online.  
  
Hammurabi_2097: I reccommend that you read it, or at least that you examine it. He offers a theory as to how a Mecha may be able to learn to have true emotions and how this may affect both Mechas and Orgas.  
  
D_Martin_Legis: I'll have to look into it. But how does this relate to B1-66-ER?  
  
Hammurabi_2097: Dr. Hobby describes several instances, all observed by him and his assistant Dr. Jeanine Salla in which an artilect or a Mecha showed emotion and acted upon these emotions. Although it is unlikely, I am not saying that it is impossible that B1-66-ER could have acted out of fright at the thought of dying, or rage at how the Varritecks treated him. I think it is more likely that he may have acted thus as a result of warped logic. I do not think it unlikely he may have had a processing error or may have a virus that is hard to detect.  
  
D_Martin_Legis: Do you mean he may have malfunctioned?  
  
Hammurabi_2097: Momentary functional lapses have occured in older Mechas  
  
D_Martin_Legis: But they do happen. Why?  
  
Hammurabi_2097: There are many causes. Conflicted processing paths, as in the cases of Mechas who have for whatever reason developed a secondary processing path. Flawed cross-referencing. You might even say he acted without thinking, without weighing all the courses of action he could have taken.  
  
D_Martin_Legis: Meaning he acted on the first thing that came to him?  
  
Hammurabi_2097: He could very well have acted in such an impulsive manner, yes.  
  
D_Martin_Legis: But does that mean he acted out of fear?  
  
Hammurabi_2097: It does not necessarily mean that. He may ot have been thinking properly since the data had become blocked and therefore was not there for immediate retrieval. Is this too confusing?  
  
D_Martin_Legis: It is a little, but it's late and I've had a long day.  
  
Hammurabi_2097: In that case, perhaps we should take up this conversation at a later time.  
  
D_Martin_Legis: Yeah, perhaps we should. But it's helped a lot. Thanks.  
  
Hammurabi_2097: Then I am happy I helped you.  
  
D_Martin_Legis: One more question though: You just said helping me understand makes you happy. Do you have emotions?  
  
Hammurabi_2097: You are not the first person to ask me that question, Mr. Martin. It is difficult for me to say yes definitively or no definitively. But I know that when I help someone to understand my kind better, I can sense my processors functioning more smoothly. And when, in the course of a trial I must view photographs from crime scenes used as evidence, I sense something binding in me for a moment. And yet... and the people I work with at Harvard would vouch for this... these sensations do not impare my judgement.  
  
D_Martin_Legis: There's times I wish Orgas could say that, too.  
  
Hammurabi_2097: But that would detract from what makes Orgakind so fascinating to and unique from their creations.  
  
D_Martin_Legis: I guess I have to agree with you.  
  
Hammurabi_2097: Not if you don't want to. You are as free as anyone to agree to disagree with me.   
  
Hammurabi_2097: You might say I made a poem there.  
  
D_Martin_Legis: Not bad.  
  
Hammurabi_2097: You doubtlessly have other matters to attend to and the evening is passing into night. In which case I will disconnect my end of the transmission... unless there was more you wished to discuss.  
  
D_Martin_Legis: Yeah, my wife will be wondering what's taking me so long.  
  
Hammurabi_2097: Then give my greetings to Mrs. Martin. Good night, Mr Martin.  
  
D_Martin_Legis: Good night, Hammurabi.  
  
Hammurabi_2097 signed off at 11:27:48 PM  
  
The email alert chimed as Declan set about saving the IM log to his hard drive. He checked the incoming messages. There was one from the infamous FleshWarrior, which he immediately forwarded to Wilson without reading it.  
  
But there were others from other people, with similarly invective subject lines: "Droids who KILL deserve to DIE!!"; "Defend your kind, prosecution!"; "Avenge Mecha Crimes". He deleted them all and closed the program.  
  
He sank his fingers into his hair and ruffled it. He'd been online long enough, so he logged out.  
  
As he did so, the phone on the bookcase behind him started to ring. He got up and answered it. Dead silence followed by heavy breathing and a clik-clakk soun replied. The line cut out and hung up.  
  
Crank emails, crank calls, what was next? he thought. But another part of his mind reassured him that it was probably just a common garden wrong number from someone who didn't know how to excuse themself for it...  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
To be continued.... 


	5. Prosecution Rebuttal

+J.M.J.+  
  
TITLE: "Motion to Deactivate" An "Animatrix: Second Renaissence Part I"/ "A.I.: Artificial Intelligence" crossover, Chapter 5  
  
AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"  
  
RATING: PG-13/ mild R (?)  
  
ARCHIVE: Permission granted  
  
FEEDBACK: Please? Please?  
  
SUMMARY: As prosecution proceeds with its presentation, Declan makes several unpleasant discoveries.  
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Animatrix: Second Renaissence, Part I", its characters, concepts, imagery or other indicia which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, RedPill Productions, Warner Brothers, et al. Nor do I own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al.  
  
NOTES: Sorry it took me so long to get this chapter going: I've been wrestling with drafting it, since some of the content is rather graphic (but nowhere as graphic as the content in the B1-66-ER trial scene in "Second Ren. Part 1") and I'm not comfortable writing or viewing graphic violence. I was too faint-hearted to review the actual short, but I did find someone's "Animatrix" fansite which had a *ton* of screen caps from the DVD, so I pored over that. Plus I also discovered, on the "Matrix" website, the original short comic strip style story which the Wachowskis wrote about this incident, in collaboration with Geoff Darrow. Not for the faint-hearted either! And I also found some fine details not seen in the film, which would have changed how I've been writing this story (i.e., a lot of us in the "Matrix" fandom have been thinking the person who gets their head torn apart in the short was the wife/girlfriend of B1-66-ER's owner; it's actually one of the people called in to deactivate the robot). Too late now, I'm afraid, but this helps with the non-fanfic version of this, so not a total loss for me. Just a simple case of not knowing the EMP was charged!   
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
Chapter 5 : Prosecution Rebuttal  
  
"So this stuff about hard to detect viruses is just a simple case of her grasping at straws?" Declan asked Wilson, the computer systems manager and droid memory cube analyst for the DA's office.  
  
Wilson nodded. "Yup, just a desperate excuse. I mean, granted, new viruses are created and decoded all the time, but they're usually pretty easy to spot and suss out. Most droids have pretty heavy virus definition software, but things like B1-66-ER are less likely to need it: he's a service model, not like one of these secretary Mechas we got now. Them needs it since they access the data stream all the time."  
  
"Well, did B1-66-ER show any signs of virus contamination? Maybe something on a replacement chip?"  
  
Wilson propelled his swivel chair across the work room to a terminal on a table. He punched several keys, bringing up a window. "Now that one was as right as rain, hardware and software. Held up great for a mech. Most of 'em that old get a little senile. Data strings get lost or broken up. Not that they lose any of their basic programming, but less essential stuff gets shuffled around: memory logs, day to day stuff from way back, that sort of stuff. A lot of owners opt for clearing logs that are more than a certain number of years old, but not here in Mass."  
  
"It's against the law," Declan said. "Unless the droid in question asks for it."  
  
"Right, one of the better provisions on the MIT Bill of Rights," Wilson agreed. "Ah, here we are." He scrolled down the document, listing what were clearly some kind of programming directives, which meant nothing to Declan, but which Wilson scanned with keen attention, like a linguist scanning a tablet of cuneiform.  
  
"Nope, no virus activity in the past ten years, let alone the past ten weeks," Wilson said. "Nothing worse than the usual little programming hiccups that sometimes plague a unit this old."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Oh, the sort of things that might make him hesitate in the middle of doing something and have to reset, but nothing that would make him do anything too bizarre."  
  
"All right, say he had picked up a virus, something that attacked his programming and made him go insane, even homicidal. Would it last just a few minutes and then go away, or would he stay in that state, attacking anyone who approached him?"  
  
"Nope, he'd keep going after people until someone hosed him with an EMP. If something hit his First Law prompts and snapped them, he'd stay snapped. He'd go after anyone who tried to confine him. But I hear from Johnson he's been a model prisoner, 'even far a droid'," Wilson quipped, imitating Johnson's heavy Irish accent.  
  
"So that means that Ms. Te's argument of insanity due to temporary malfunction doesn't hold a single drop of water," Declan deduced. "Wait a minute, you said something about First Law prompts. I thought the Three Laws were part of a droid's training or something."  
  
Wilson wagged a mocking finger at him. "Hm, I see you need to do your homework on robotics."  
  
Declan shrugged, smiling. "I'm a lawyer, I'm not a roboticist. I've read maybe a handful of articles besides the text of the MIT Bill of Rights."  
  
"Yeah, a bunch a' lawmakers drafted that. Didn't realize that the Three Laws are programmed into *every* single droid, artilect or Mecha."  
  
"I don't follow, I'm afraid..." Declan admitted.  
  
Wilson pursed his mouth thoughtfully. "All right, how to explain this... Okay, you're Catholic, right?"  
  
"Yes I am," Declan replied. "Dyed in the wool French-Irish Catholic."  
  
"All right, so you probably remember from catechism about the moral law that's philosophically written on every man's heart, 'Do good, Avoid evil'. The Three Laws are like that, except that the're much more strict and they don't give as much leeway for broad interpretation like the moral law, depending on a person's intelligence or upbringing or mood as the case may be. Robots *have* to obey these rules. They can't get around them, not usually."  
  
Declan's ears perked up at this. "What do you mean, not usually?"  
  
Wilson wagged his head. "Well... The older ones sometimes get... 'funny'. Most of 'em were built with more care and craftsmanship than the newer ones, the Mechas. They weren't cranked out in the huge numbers they are today. It's like the difference between a 2020 Saturn Cruiser and a 1920 Model T Ford. The designers and the production crews put a *leetle* more work into building these units. A lot of the older ones have much more complex processors than the new ones. These units can learn."  
  
"So, in that case, is it possible B1-66-ER could have learned to be aggressive?"  
  
"It ain't impossible. I haven't scanned his memory logs, it would take too long," Wilson said. "I'd like to think it's unlikely, but I've heard some stories about older models doing odd things." He paused, growing serious. "But nothing like this. Allen Hobby over to Cybertronics has been pushing for creating self-motivated reasoning parameters, but I don't see those coming, not in my lifetime, and certainly not yours." Wilson grinned at him.  
  
Declan twisted his face into a mask of scorn at Wilson, but he felt the corners of his mouth turning up. "Thanks a lot," he rumbled, pretending to sound stern. Growing serious again, he added, "I guess in that case, I should tell Glynnis to draft a motion to rebutt defense's argument. But... do you think my argument that droids lack emotions was out of turn?"  
  
"I think you're both a little bit right and a little bit wrong. But I can tell Ms. Te was really looking for a quick answer. You're good at catching people off guard when they're not being completely logical. You always were."  
  
"It just didn't sound right with me," Declan said.  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
"I spoke out of turn, I'm sorry," Ms. Te said, as she and Declan sat conferring with Justice Wendeel the next day. But Declan could sense the aura of resentment just under the surface of Ms. Te's humility. He waited for her to glare at him from under her lowered eyelids. But he could merely have been judging her too harshly.  
  
"At least you admitted your error," Justice Wendell said. "But I'm afraid it's too late for you to present another opening statement. We should be starting the cross-examination of prosecution's witnesses. I hope you can redirect your presentation to some line between sentimentality and futility."  
  
"I'm working on that, but the witnesses I have selected can still testify?"  
  
"We'll have to see about that," Justice Wendell said, in a voice that brooked little argument.  
  
"I'd also like to add that I was partly in the wrong myself," Declan admitted. "Mr. Wilson, who analyzed the defendent's cube for errors tells me that there are instances where older models like the defendant have acted uncharacteristically and even have shown some rudimentary emotions."  
  
Now he sensed a "told you so!" look from Ms. Te. He denied her the pleasure of looking him in the face.  
  
"You'll be able to explore that during cross-examination, if you can," Justice Wendell said,.  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
"So you entered the living room, and you found the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Varriteck on the floor close to the end wall?" Declan asked his first witness, Jerry Bultwell, one of the homicide detectives who had been at the scene of the crime.  
  
"Yeah, what was left of 'em," Bultwell replied, with an attempt at deadpan humor. "Mr. Varriteck was already cold, though we could still get a pulse on him. But Mrs. Varriteck, or rather the then unidentified Caucasian female, was missing her whole head. I mean, I've seen some bad stuff in my time, but this beat it all. First time I ever saw anyone with their head splattered all over fi'teen square feet. Looked like somethin' out of a goddamned David Cronenberg movie."  
  
McGeever, in the press gallery, let out a surpressed rumble of annoyance, but he quickly fell quiet when Justice Wendell started reaching for her gavel.  
  
"Did you see anything that clearly indicated a droid had done this?" Declan asked.  
  
"If you mean if the victims had any metal filings under her nails, I'm afraid they didn't." A supressed nervous laugh rose from some members of the press. Damon Varriteck, at the back of the gallery, let out a loud, haggard sigh.  
  
"That was a cheap shot, I'm sorry," Bultwell said. "The kind of injuries the victims sustained, it was either that or someone with the arms of a droid."  
  
Juror 6 raised his hand, the light from the windows sheening on the dermis covering it. "Excuse me, just to clarify, but I have a prosthesis based on a Mecha arm design, but it's no stronger than my other arm."  
  
"Didn't mean to sound crude," the detective said, with a sheepish smile. "I meant, like someone who had the whole strength of a droid. Y' know how strong them are, a lot of 'em."  
  
"We're aware of that," Declan said. "How were you able to determine precisely whether or not the defendant had committed the crime?"  
  
"No one else was in the house: Damon Varriteck had just come home from a business meeting, and the collection crew from Cybertronics were still waiting on the driveway. The Varritecks had taken a long time in calling them back in to collect the droid, so they went in to see what was going on."  
  
"So you found the defendant on the back stairs of the house?"  
  
"Yeah, he was coming down carrying a small suitcase, tried getting past us to head out the back door and into the trees behind the house, but we'd surrounded him by then."  
  
"So you took him into custody?"  
  
"Yeah, though he wouldn't come too quietly."  
  
"What do you mean by that?"  
  
"Well, he tried to sidestep us, tried to break free actually, so we had to restrain him, zap his lower motor thingys with a low-level EMP."  
  
"But you and the crime scene investigators discovered incontestable evidence in the house as to what had happened, didn't you?"  
  
"Damon told the CSI crew that there was a security camera behind a two-way mirror over the fireplace in the living room, so they removed the mirror and recovered the tape. Had audio-visual take a look-see at it."  
  
"And is there a copy of the tape availible?"  
  
"Yeah, they copied it onto DVD and submitted that copy to the district attorney's office."  
  
Declan reached over amongst the plastic bags of evidence lying on the table -- blood-soaked carpet fragments, swatches of upholstery, color photos of the wall of the Varritecks' living room -- and picked up a black DVD case. "The People request to submit evidence Exhibit J."  
  
"You may admit it, Mr. Martin," Justice Wendell said.  
  
Declan handed the DVD case to the balliff, who took it and lumbered over to a flat screen television mounted on top of a tall cart with a DVD player, then knelt down and carefully loaded the disk into the player.  
  
"I must first warn you, ladies and gentleman... er, intelligent persons of the jury and of the press, that the images you are about to see are of a very graphic nature," Declan announced. The balliff looked up at him for a signal, his finger hovering over the "play" button on the DVD player. Declan nodded and stepped back.  
  
As he did so, he thought he heard the defendant's chair creak. He glanced toward defense's bench. B1-66-ER had drawn back in his chair, almost as if he might try to rise and escape. Ms Te put a hand, almost comfortingly on the droid's wrist; the droid tilted his head down, looking at her hand, but made no other move, except to look up toward the flatscreen.  
  
Declan heard a whirr like a zoom lens tracking, but he couldn't be sure if that was what it was.  
  
A grainy stretch of black and white static covered the screen for a moment, then went black. Then the screen resolved into a black and white image of the Varritecks' living room. Numbers on the lower right corner of the screen showed the time in hours/minutes/seconds, ticking off as the film rolled.  
  
The room looked much as Declan had seen it before, only without the extractions the crime scene unit had made. Mrs. Varriteck, a plain-faced, middle-aged, rather stocky woman with dark hair, sat on the couch, talking with Mr. Varriteck, a tall man who looked somewhat older than his wife. A puppy sat on the far end of the sofa, gnawing on a rawhide bone. The couple conversed for a moment -- there was no sound -- then Mr. Varriteck walked out of the range of the camera, heading out where the hallway would have been. In the background, two Cybertronics technicians in grey coveralls were preparing a restraint chair in the doorway to the dining room.  
  
A moment later, Mr Varriteck walked back into the range of the camera, leading in the defendent, who still had a whisk broom in his hand.  
  
Mr. Varriteck spoke with the collection crew, who went out by way of the dining room. He then turned to B1-66-ER. The droid's head lifted slightly.  
  
Then with one swift movement, it stepped toward Mr. Varriteck and thrust the handle of the broom through the man's left eye. Varriteck staggered backward toward the couch, then his heel caught on the leg of the table and he fell over backward, sprawling on the carpet, blood pouring from his wound.  
  
Mrs. Varriteck jumped up from the couch, the dog beside her leapt off and lunged at the droid, snapping at it. B1-66-ER reached out and grabbed the dog with both hands, the head in one hand, the body in the other. The droid twisted the animal's neck completely around, half-wrenching it off in the process, and flung the bleeding carcass across the room.  
  
Mrs. Varriteck darted away from the droid, zigzagging about the room like a chicken trapped inside a snake's glass cage. She must have run under the lens of the camera, out of its range, because she disappeared from view for a moment as she headed for the hallway.  
  
The droid turned, and with deliberate strides, walked toward the hallway.  
  
A moment later, he returned, backing Mrs. Varriteck into the living room. She tried prying the droid's hands from the sides of her head. She pummeled B1-66-ER's metal torso, but she was no match for the droid's strength. He did not release her head.  
  
The droid backed her almost toward the wall of the living room, close to the window, then pushed her down on her knees, his body blocking her from sight. The droid's arms spread slightly.  
  
Something behind his form exploded. Tissue and blood spattered everywhere, splotching the wall and the floor and the arm of the sofa. Mrs. Varriteck's body, missing its head, slumped sideways, falling across the body of her husband.  
  
The droid turned away, facing toward the camera. Drops of blood, black on the film's black and white and grey, fell from his grey hands and the front of his torso was spattered. He paused, raising his hands before his eyelenses, studying them for a long moment. Then holding his hands raised, like a surgeon who has just scrubbed up and is keeping his hands from touching anything, he walked away toward the hallway.  
  
The screen went blank, then went black as the disk ended.  
  
Declan watched the screen in silence. He was accustomed to this kind of evidence, but he felt his belly tightening. His palms, resting on his forearms folded across his chest suddenly felt damp against the black serge of his jacket. He tried to swallow the sandpapery feeling in the back of his throat, but it remained.  
  
The members of the jury shifted in their seats. One of the women let out a low moan of fear. The man with the Mecha arm prosthesis coughed.  
  
Declan glanced towards defense's bench. Ms. Te recrossed her legs with unease, glancing away from the screen, her face a mask of calmness hiding something else.   
  
The defendant, sitting at her side, watched the screen, head erect, hands resting on his skeletal metal thighs. Declan hoped the droid would show something like remorse, turning his face away, or something, anything, even if his face couldn't register the usual expressions of horror, since he lacked the necessary features. An image from the Eichmann trial came to his mind's eye, the almost bored calm of the convicted Nazi boss and murderer of millions as prosecution displayed some of the photographic evidence from Auschwitz and Treblinka....  
  
*Can't project human responses or behavior onto him*, Declan reminded himself. *This is a droid; they don't have the same behavioral processes as humans*.  
  
He suddenly became aware of a rapid series of wing-clicks coming from behind him. He fought back an impulse to turn around and glare at McGeever. Sweitz murmured something: the wing-clicks stopped, but McGeever let out a harrassed sigh.  
  
"The droid we see in these images is clearly the defendant?" Declan asked.  
  
"Definately," Bultwell said. "He was the only droid of this make in the house. The Cybertronics crew verified his unit number and compared it with his contract with the Varriteck household. There were other images of him as he walked through the house after the crime, on other security cameras in the house, that is. As you can see from the timer-numbers on the bottom of the screen, this all happened in the space of about 5 minutes." Bultwell coughed, almost as if trying to clear something from his throat.  
  
"Nothing further," Declan said, sensing the detective's discomfort.  
  
Ms. Te stood up and approached the witness stand. "Is this tape accurate?" she asked.  
  
"Depends on what you mean by accurate," Bultwell said, at another attempt at humor.  
  
"Is it really from the Varriteck's security camera?" she asked. "Is this the original tape?"  
  
"It's a direct transfer from the tape to a DVD, to keep anyone from tampering with the evidence," Bultwell said.  
  
"So, the tape could have been altered before it was copied onto the DVD?"  
  
"As far as I know it wasn't," Bultwell said.  
  
"As far as you know... are you an expert on filmography?" Ms. Te asked.  
  
"Hey, I don't think anyone screwed with the tape, if that's what you mean," Bultwell said. "The timer numbers on the bottom of the screen don't look like they've been buggered with."  
  
"Excuse me, your honor, Ms. Te, and fellow members of the jury," said a clear voice from the jury box. "But may I be permitted to speak?"  
  
"You may, Hammurabi," Justice Wendell said.  
  
"I cannot help concurring with the witness: the images show no signs of having been altered or tampered with in any way, shape, or form.  
  
"You mean you can see the images that clearly?" Justice Wendell asked.  
  
Yes, even through the camera of this remote presence device. I have been analyzing the images since the cross-examination began regarding the tape. No one has added anything to or subtracted anything from the images. Even CGI would have flaws indicating enhancement, and this has none."  
  
"I'm with the machine-voice guy," Bultwell said.  
  
"So you mean to say the tape and the DVD are identical?"  
  
"As far as I can tell, yeah," Bultwell said.  
  
"It would be logical to review the original tape and compare it with this segment on the DVD, but the comparison would be purely academic," Hammurabi added.  
  
"What made you sure that the defendant had killed the Varritecks?" Ms. Te asked.  
  
Bultwell shrugged. "What else could have done that kind of damage to the victims?"  
  
"And what makes you so sure that the defendant wasn't simply trying to protect his own existence? The tape only shows what happened on the surface -- "  
  
"Objection: speculation and begging the question," Declan interjected.  
  
"Withdrawn," Ms. Te said. She darted a glare at Declan as she paused, clearly trying to find a way to rephrase her question. "There are some Orga humans who are just as strong as some droids. Are you sure you arrested the right person?"  
  
"Hey, the only people in the immediate vicinity at the time of the crime were the Varritecks, the collection crew waiting on the driveway, and the droid. I really doubt that Mr. Varriteck was strong enough to tear his wife's head in two, then stuck a broom through his own head and pulled her body across his chest while he lay dying," Bultwell said. "And the collection crew didn't do it, either: a neighbor says they stayed put on the driveway form the time they came out till the time Damon came home twenty minutes later."  
  
"Perhaps we should call this neighbor in to testify," Ms. Te suggested.  
  
Bultwell shrugged. "Suit yerself."  
  
"By the way, Mr. Bultwell, what's your opinion of artilects?" she asked.  
  
"Objection: relevance," Declan cried.  
  
"No, I'll answer that," Bultwell said. Looking Ms Te in the eye, he continued. "I gave my niece a Supertoy puppy for her first Christmas. And since my wife left me for a college kid, I've been callin' on a blonde lover-Mecha named Callie. Always give her a five-dollar tip when we're done."  
  
"Nothing further," Ms Te said, stepping down.  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
In a bid to get away from the inevitable reporters at the front of the courthouse, Declan and Glynnis headed out by way of a side exit. But they still didn't completely dodge the media: They came upon Sweitz and McGeever talking with Ms. Te. Declan kept walking past them, following Glynnis, but Sweitz smiled his way. Declan paused, letting the youngster take him aside.  
  
"Looks like her AI juror is only aiding prosecution," Sweitz pointed out.  
  
"It's a masterstroke on her part, but I think she's starting to find out what this case is really all about," Declan said. "The lines aren't as clearly drawn as we'd all like them to be."  
  
"Hey, that would make a great quote, that last part about the lines not being clearly drawn," Sweitz said, getting out his pad. "You mind if I quote you on that?"  
  
"No, go right ahead," Declan said, smiling on the youngster's enthusiasm.  
  
The young reporter wrote fast, his thin fingers flying. "So what do you think of defense's grasping at straws?" Sweitz asked.  
  
"I'm not going to attack Ms. Te's character or her approach to this case," Declan said. "She may get somewhat emotionally overwrought in the course of her presentation, especially with cases involving droids, but she's just a passionate young woman who works very hard on her cases."  
  
Sweitz's pencil flew over the pad. He paused writing only to flip over a page and start a fresh one. "Now, I've been hearing stuff, rumors mostly, that you're a bit ambivalent about artilects in general. Would you want to clarify that?"  
  
"No, I don't mind at all: The way I see it, Mechas are a part of this world as we know it and they have as much right to be treated well as well treat each other and our pet animals. The problem right now isn't the generality of mechanical beings: the problem at hand is one droid in particular which made some wrong decisions and overstepped the law. I'm not putting Mechakind on trial, just B1-66-ER, and only because he killed two people."  
  
"I can tell the papers are bugging you. That's why I'm asking this stuff, set the record straight," Sweitz said.  
  
Declan smiled. "If you carry that kind of attitude toward the way you handle all your work, you'll be a success."  
  
Sweitz shrugged nonchalantly. "I guess we're a lot alike that way, the way we handle our work: you trying criminal cases, me telling people the truth about what's going on in the world... I just wish my editors could see it the same way."  
  
"We all want to be understood, it's a fundamental need," Declan said.  
  
He became aware of the words passing between McGeever and Ms. Te, who stood a head taller than the diminutive photographer.  
  
"If y' like, I'll try gettin' a copy of the tape. I'll even run an analysis on it. I've worked with videography as well as still work," McGeever said.  
  
Ms. Te looked *down* at him. Declan divined the clashing emotions within her: curiosity over the tape, and annoyance with this tiny interloper. For that matter, McGeever was standing a little too close to her for her to be comfortable with him. At length, she said something too low for Declan to hear clearly and then walked away, her heels snapping on the marble tiles. McGeever shrugged, watching her stride out of sight around a corner, then sidled over to join Declan and Sweitz.  
  
"Dammit, and I even offered to find the original tape for her," McGeever groused.  
  
"It wouldn't have worked anyway," Sweitz said.  
  
The photographer ignored his partner. "So I take it you been givin' Jimmy Thirties here the straight dope on round two of Martin vs. Te? Otherwise known of course to the public at large as People v. B1-66-ER?"  
  
"I'm only giving my side of the story, that's the only thing I can do," Declan said.  
  
"Mm, which is why I'm keeping an impartial eye on the opposition," McGeever said, with an odd glint in his eye. "Personally, I think the droid is as guilty as sin. All this court trial sh*t is just a formality."  
  
"I'm only trying to find out why he did it, just so the defendant can be sentenced properly," Declan said.  
  
McGeever started to curl his lips back, clearly preparatory to some cynical remark, but Sweitz cut him off. "And you're doing a swell job too!" He looked at his watch. "But we've kept you long enough. Thanks for your time." Sweitz put his hand on McGeever's shoulder and steered him out the side door.  
  
To Declan's and Glynnis's relief, no reporters came crowding around them as they left by the same door the two cubs from the "Independent" had passed through. But as he headed back to the office and then back home, Declan couldn't shake the feeling that somehow he hadn't completely dodged the press gauntlet.  
  
He knew why he had that feeling when he came home.  
  
Usually when he got home, Sabrina would meet him at the door, unless she had a large order to finish, but he hadn't heard that she had anything pressing lately. But she wasn't there when he unlocked the door and opened it.  
  
"Sabrina?" he called, walking through the kitchen to the dining room, finding no sign of her.  
  
She came in from the back bedroom, her violet eyes dark, a sure sign that something had annoyed her.  
  
She looked up as he came up to her. "Declan... hello," she said, her voice flat.  
  
He set down his briefcase and drew her to him gently. She let him hold her, but she didn't tilt her face up to his. "Something wrong?" he asked.  
  
She shook her head, the movement heavy with weariness. "Reporters," she said. "They were calling on the phone looking for you. Then a news crew showed up at the door later this afternoon."  
  
"So what did you do?"  
  
"I let the answering machine take the calls. I paid no attention to the crew: I had that order for the Davis girls' confirmation dresses to finish."  
  
"Where's Cecie?"  
  
"She's over at the Connellys' house. She came home from school through the woods, right about the time the news crew showed up, so I let her in by the back door. They didn't see us."  
  
"For once I have a reason not to mind her walking through those woods," he said, his mouth wry around the words.  
  
At that point they heard the kitchen door open and close. A moment later, she came into the dining room, her leather book satchel slung over her shoulder, and her face gathered with unmistakable annoyance.  
  
"What's wrong?" Declan asked, releasing Sabrina and turning to their daughter. "You wishing you'd gone to another family?"  
  
Cecie's eyes burned balefully. "Don't try to make me laugh," she snapped.  
  
"You look like you could use a laugh," he observed.  
  
She plunked her satchel on the floor and pushed a wisp of hair back from her face. "I was coming out of the Connellys' house when this woman reporter creep and a camera guy jump up and start asking me a million questions, like if we had any house Mechas or if you guys ever let me play with Supertoys."  
  
"So how'd you handle that?" Declan asked.  
  
"I kept walking fast. I cut across people's lawns," she said.  
  
Declan looked up, gazing out the kitchen window.  
  
A silver van with the logo of a local news station emblazoned across the side in rainbow colors pulled up to the curb on the opposite side of the street, directly across from the house.  
  
To be continued.... 


	6. Witness for Prosecution

TITLE: "Motion to Deactivate" Chapter Six -- Witness for Prosecution  
  
AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
ARCHIVE: Permission granted  
  
FEEDBACK: Please? Please?  
  
SUMMARY: Tensions on all fronts begin to mount as Declan presents his next two witnesses...  
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Animatrix: Second Renaissence, Part I", its characters, concepts, imagery or other indicia which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, RedPill Productions, Warner Brothers, et al. Nor do I own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al.  
  
NOTES: Another delayed chapter, I'm afraid! Part of the problem was the way this chapter wrote itself. One scene came out in fragments and I had to figure out how to put them together; writing is a lot like making a movie, some times you just can't create the scenes consequetively from start to finish, much as you'd like to. I actually have two different ending scenes for this already drafted (one ending for the fanfic version, the other for the straight robot novel version).  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
Chapter Six -- Witness for Prosecution  
  
The phone in the kitchen rang while they were having breakfast. Sabrina got up to answer it, thinking out loud that it might be one of her customers calling with a complaint or a request.  
  
Declan, who was standing and reading the newspaper while he waited for his toast to pop up, reached for it. "Let me take it," he said, and picked up the phone.  
  
On the other end of the line he heard nothing for a moment. Then he heard the sound of heavy breathing just offline.  
  
"Metal-lover," a male voice muttered. Then the line cut out.  
  
Declan set the receiver back on the phone.  
  
"Now who was that?" Sabrina asked.  
  
Declan's toast popped up. "Someone must have been angry with their employer and they were too unfocussed to dial the phone right," he said. But he could tell by the look in his wife's eyes that she suspected something.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
"Hey, Declan," Wilson called out, sticking his head around the open door of Declan's office.  
  
Declan looked up from reading over his snail mail. "Hey, what?"  
  
"I got some good news and some bad news about those emails you been gettin'."  
  
Declan pushed back his chair. "All right, let's hear it."  
  
"Well, the good news is, I traced it to an online account. The bad news is, it seems to be an anonymous account, like someone made up a phony name and address to disguise him-herself."  
  
"All right, were you able to trace the IP address?"  
  
"Yeah, I scanned that next: they're coming from a public access computer at the library in Amherst, which brings us back to square one... almost. I'm gonna check with the library's access log, see who was on what computer when. That might give me a better lead."  
  
"I suspect they might have figured out that we're scanning them: I stopped getting emails, but I've started getting crank calls. At home."  
  
"Uh oh, those can be worse."  
  
"I know. They called this morning during breakfast."  
  
"Ouch! Well, I got a friend who could trace the call for you," Wilson said. "Did they say anything that might clue you in?"  
  
"The first call, all I got was a lot of heavy breathing, but the one this morning... someone grumbled 'Metal-lover' and hung up. This isn't the first time I've gotten threats before."  
  
"Does Sabrina know about this? the emails, the calls?"  
  
"I keep it from her. I don't want her and Cecie to worry about me. They got enough trouble right now: the media has been buzzing our house."  
  
"Oh yeah, I saw that on the news. 'The Executive District Attorney and his family were unavailible for comment'," Wilson said in a mock news-anchor voice.  
  
"I've gone on media black-out; Sabrina doesn't watch much TV anyway, so we don't mind."   
  
"Good idea, but I'm afraid you're gonna feel the ill-effects anyway," Wilson warned.  
  
"I'm prepared for it," Declan said.  
  
"Oh yeah, that kid-reporter who keeps writing about you: Sweets or something."  
  
"You mean Sweitz? He's a good young man, just tells it as he hears it, plain and simple."  
  
"Only this case ain't so simple," Wilson said.  
  
"No," Declan replied, agreeing.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
"So when you examined the defendent, did you find anything unusual about him?" Declan asked his second witness, Zeke Castleroux, one of the Cybertronics technicians who'd been on the collection crew at the Varritecks' house.  
  
Castleroux pushed his glassed further up the bridge of his lean nose. "We were unable to run a complete scan on the subject, but I had the logs from a scan just four months before the incident. They showed nothing unusual. For a unit as old as this and near complete obsolesence."  
  
"Did you scan his memory cube?"  
  
"No, we didn't get a chance to do this, and it isn't usually done during deactivations particularly when the unit is to be deactivated for mechanical reasons, unless the owner or contractor requests it. According to the owner-contractors, the unit was fully functional but maintaining him had become burdensome since replacement parts for this model are no longer in production."  
  
"So, what exactly happened when the defendant entered the Varritecks' living room?"  
  
"We, the crew and I, were preparing to restraint chair in order to transport the unit, when Mr. Varriteck entered with the B1 unit. He asked the unit why it had taken it so long to finish raking the yard; the unit replied that it detected a faulty actuator in it's left hip, which made walking difficult for it. Mr Varriteck explained to the crew that he had tried to obtain an new actuator but was unable to do so. Mrs. Varriteck asked if the newer models of serving men ever had this kind of trouble and how easy was it to obtain replacement parts. We replied that the actuators on newer units were considerably smaller and much more standardized."  
  
"And what was the defendant's reaction to this discussion?"  
  
"The unit was unresponsive, not in a sense that it was unfunctional, but in a sense that it was clearly process the words being said about it. In fact, it asked Mr Varriteck what was going on and why there was a technical crew in the house since he had only had a service inspection four months before. At that point, Mr. Varriteck asked if the crew could step outside for a moment while he explained the situation to the unit. We thought it was an odd request, but we needed to bring in another box of equipment from our transport."  
  
"And what did you do after that?"  
  
Castleroux adjusted his glasses again. "Mr. Varriteck had said that he and his wife would step outside and tell us when the unit was ready. Fifteen minutes passed, but no one came out. We were just about to go up to the house, when the Varritecks' son Damon drove into the yard. He let us into the house using his passkey, since the house's alarm system was armed. We entered by way of the front entryway, stepping through the dining room into the living room where we had left the Varritecks... We found the restraint chair mangled..." Castleroux paused and moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. "And over by the couch, we saw the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Varriteck."  
  
"Is it possible that the defendant could have done this? Are there any other instances where another droid of the same make killed or injured anyone?"  
  
"No. The B1 series has been consistently reliable and blameless. There was one instance when a B1 unit fled from its owners home, when the owner tried to have it deactivated, but no B1 unit has ever harmed an Orga before this incident."  
  
"Do you think the defendant could have killed the Varritecks?"  
  
Ms. Te had been quiet through the proceedings, but now she spoke up. "Objection: relevance and speculation!"  
  
"Overruled. Please rephrase the question, Mr. Martin," Judge Wendell ordered.  
  
"Considering the Three Laws prompts that are part of all robots basic programming, is it possible for a B1 unit to override these prompts and harm a human?"  
  
There, he thought, that should hold Ms. Te, although he had to admit to himself that the question was as jargon-heavy as Castleroux's answers.  
  
Castleroux hitched his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "That's a rather peculiar question, but it does have some bearing on this case. To put it colloquially, some older androids as they near obsolescence, not jus the B1 series but other models as well, have been known to... get funny."  
  
"Could you please elaborate on this?"  
  
"Gladly. Most artilects are capable of learning in an intellectual sense: they can memorize recipes or newspaper items verbatim from reading them through one time. But a few seem to learn behavioral prompts from the Orga families and individuals they associate with. Granted, these can be programmed into an artilect, and they are standard on all Mechas in order to make them seem more human. But they were not programmed into most older models, and certainly not service droids like the B1 series, which were intended solely to be general workers, albeit with a variety of servic options. You once found B1 units in everything from hotel service to sanitation to construction crews.  
  
"But there have been reports of B1 units, the few that are extant and still serve as household help, manifesting... emotions. Not just emotional emulation, such as you find standard on Mechas, but proto-emotional responses. We have a report of a B1 unit owned by a Brazillian family living in Chicago which showed genuine distress over the terrorist attacks in Brazil City last year -- the family that owned this unit had friends and relatives there. A manager of a family-owned restaurant in Colorado Springs reports that a B1 unit that worked in the kitchen showed genuine joy when the manager's granddaughter was born."  
  
"But how does this relate to the present case?" Judge Wendell asked.  
  
"I am just getting to that, your honor," Castleroux replied. The tech paused, collecting his thoughts. "Getting back to the case of the B1 unit that ran away from its owners: that one manifested distress at being told of its impending deactivation and literally ran from the house. When Rogue Retrieval picked it up several hours later, it tried to run away again and even tried to fight off the Retrieval agents."  
  
"Nothing further," Declan said. This guy's so thorough, will Ms. Te have anything to ask him? he wondered.  
  
But as he thought this and settled himself in his seat, Ms Te rose from her bench and appraoched the witness stand.  
  
"Returning to what happened at the Varriteck house the day of the incident, did you see anyone approach the house? Anyone who looked suspicious?"  
  
"No, we saw no one."  
  
"You were at the front of the house. Is it possible someone could have entered from the rear entrance?"  
  
"It is possible that someone could have approached from the rear, but they would have been unable to enter."  
  
"And why is that?"  
  
"The droid would have prevented them from entering. It is equipped with a direct interface with the alarm system on the house, and the house was armed at that point."  
  
"If someone had tried to enter the house, what would have happened?"  
  
"If it was an intruder, the droid would have notified the police via a self-contained cellular link, and it would have approached the intruder and put them out. That is why serving men are equipped with high strength regulators."   
  
"Now, getting back to what you said... You say some B1 units have manifested emotional responses?" she asked.  
  
"Yes, we have dozens of these incidents documented. Dr. Allen Hobby himself has taken an interest in them as part of his research toward developing self-motivated reasoning parameters."  
  
"Have any B1 units taken drastic measures to defend themselves when they were attacked or threatened?"  
  
Castleroux wagged his head. "There have been a few cases, but they aren't coming to mind. ...No, there was one case. B1-51-TH grabbed the arm of its owner when the man was about to beat his wife, a thing he unfortunately was in the habit of doing. The man hit the unit in the face, breaking an optical receiver; the unit responded by pinning the man's hands to a wall while the man's wife called the police."  
  
"Have any B1 units -- or any other droids or Mechas for that matter -- ever claimed self-defense if they harmed an Orga?"  
  
"No. No other B1 unit has ever resorted to such extreme measures to protect its existence."  
  
At that point, a courtroom page entered, approached the balliff and conferred with him in an undertone for a moment. The balliff approached Declan. "There's a phone call for you from St. John Bosco Catholic High School. You want to take it, Mr. Martin?"  
  
"Yes, just give me a moment to request a recess."  
  
"Nothing further," Ms. Te said, turning away from the witness. Even in his distracted state of mind, Declan could hardly help noticing the note of irritation in his voice.  
  
"Prosecution requests a recess for personal matters," Declan said.  
  
"In which case, this court is adjourned untill tomorrow at nine a.m.," Judge Wendell announced.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
Declan had the call patched through to his cellphone; the school principal, Sister Teresia Benedict was on the line.  
  
"I hate to disturb you while you're working, Mr. Martin, since I know you're in the middle of a very important case, but Cecie's gotten into some trouble."  
  
The sound of that made his stomach cringe. "What kind of trouble?"  
  
"She got into a fight with two boys. She claims she was acting in self-defense. Could you please come to the school to help us sort this out?"  
  
"Court's adjourned for the day; I'll be right over," Declan said.  
  
As he hung up, he caught sight of Glynnis waiting for him several paces away.  
  
"Trouble at home?" she asked.  
  
"No, it's at Cecie's school. She got into a fight, but she's claiming she was defending herself."  
  
A humorless smirk passed over Glynnis's face. "How much you wanna bet it has something to do with this case?"  
  
"I'd take you up on it, but I'm not a betting man," Declan replied, heading out and hailing a cab.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
He found Cecie in the principal's office, sitting on a plain wooden chair, her hair mussed and dirty, her eyes blazing. A bruise showed on her neck and the pits of someone's teeth dented the skin of her wrist.  
  
"What happened?" Declan asked.  
  
"She got into a fight with two boys," Sister Imelda, the principal, explained. "She dislocated the arm of one and knocked the other unconscious."  
  
"What do you have to say for yourself, young woman?" Declan asked his daughter.  
  
Cecie looked up at him out of the corner of her eye then raised her head. "You gonna cross-examine me?"  
  
"Just tell me what happened."  
  
She breathed audibly, an annoyed sound. "It was the Murphree twins, you know, the pair that got kept back twice?"  
  
He knew the Murphree twins well: their father had been caught selling firearms without a license and the family was known to have ties with the Irish Mob in Cambridge. "So what did they do?"  
  
She pushed her hair out of her face. "First they were just pushing me around when I was coming back from gym class. I tried to avoid them, but they grabbed me and backed me into a corner. Tim tried to choke me, but I punched him in the temples and knocked him out. So Ted tried to punch me in the face, so I grabbed his arm and twisted it."  
  
Both techniques Cecie had learned in the self-defense classes Declan had enrolled Cecie in last year, when she passed through her menarche. It was the least he could do to give her a sense of security and he'd hoped she never had to use it.  
  
"At least you stopped them from doing worse things to you," he said. He took her by the shoulder and lead her out.  
  
Self defense....  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
"You seem quiet," Sabrina said as she and Declan washed the dishes much later, after supper, while Cecie was upstairs finishing her homework. "Does it have anything to do with the trial or with Cecie's trouble at school?"  
  
He wiped a plate dry in slow, easy circles. "It's a little of both," he admitted. "She acted in self-defense. I saw the Murphree boys myself: I doubt their injuries were self-inflicted, nor were Cecies' bruises."  
  
"Deck, we're talking about our daughter," she cut in, looking him in the eye.  
  
He set the plate in the drying rack and leaned the heels of his hands on the sink ledge. "I questioned the Murphrees about what happened. Turns out they were teasing her about this case I've taken... They evaded the question, but Cecie tells me they asked if I mess around with lover-Mechas, that's how the fight escalated. But she was acting in self-defense... just like the defendant in the case that started all this trouble for us."  
  
Sabrina blotted her hands dry and took Declan by the shoulders, turning him to face her. "But that droid is different from our daughter. She has a soul; she has emotions. You know how aggressive she can be."  
  
"But they both have minds and logic. They can both choose to defend themselves or to find some other means to escape. They both could have chosen othe options. Only in this case her conditioning and her personality caused her to choose differently."  
  
Conditioning... Was there something in B1-66-ER that caused the droid to make the choice it had made? He would have to pursue that, but now was certainly not the time...  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
"How would you describe your parents' relationship toward B1-66-ER?" Declan asked.  
  
Damon Varriteck shrugged his shoulders. "How do you describe your relationship to your vacuum cleaner or to your garbage disposal or your telephone? He was a machine. He cleaned the house, washed the dishes, kept the yard clear of leaves and the lawn mowed. He did those million and one things that eat up our precious time."  
  
"So he was a labor-saving device," Declan said.  
  
"Objection: rephrase as a question," Ms. Te called out.  
  
Declan turned his statement over in his head. "Was he ever more than a mere labor-saving device?"  
  
Rolling his eyes, Damon emitted a low sigh of barely veiled annoyance. "He was just a beat-up machine that scrubbed the toilet. God, it cost more to maintain him than it would to pay full wages to an Orga servant. That thing belonged in a museum, not working in someone's house!"  
  
"Does this mean you viewed the defendant as a machine, not as an individual?"  
  
"Yes. My dad really hated it when the MIT Bill went through when I was a kid and he had to start paying that thing wages."  
  
"Did your father resent the defendant?"  
  
"He couldn't stand hearing that thing creaking around the house and he hated having to scrounge around on E-Bay for replacement parts. I was going to help them out when they bought the new model my mother wanted."  
  
"How did your father treat the defendant?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Was your father a strict employer, or did he try to establish some rapport with the defendant?"  
  
"It's pretty hard to treat something like that as if it were part of the family. I mean, look at it: it's got a face that would stop a clock. It's not even a face!"  
  
B1-66-ER raised its face, turning toward the witness stand. Declan thought he saw something like confusion in the way the droid tilted its head.  
  
"Excuse me, Mr. Varriteck, your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Hammurabi spoke up. "But may I make a suggestion?"  
  
"You may," Judge Wendell said.  
  
"I sense that he is becoming stressed, and though his emotions after the tragedy that befell his family are understandable, they may be tainting his testimony and his ability to present it."  
  
"Listen, whatever you have to say, machine-voice, I'm not interested!" Damon cried.  
  
"I think Juror 12 has a good point. This court will recess for thirty minutes. During this time, Mr. Varriteck, I strongly suggest that you find some non-chemical way to relieve your obvious distress. We are well aware that you are still grieving the deaths of your parents, but your grief is hurting yourself and your case," Judge Wendell announced. "Court recessed. Mr. Martin, I'll see you in my chambers."  
  
Damon looked annoyed. Ms. Te's brow constricted with worry. Declan himself had had reservations about admitting Damon as a witness, but he had been there the day of the murder and he knew what had led up to that day. He followed the balliff and Judge Wendell into the judge's chambers.  
  
Judge Wendell unbuttoned the top of her black robes, uncovering the neck of a soft pink silk blouse. "I'm concerned, Mr. Martin: your witness is becoming incendiary and his statements may taint the jury."  
  
"He's an angry young man who lost his parents," Declan said. "But he was there when the bodies of his parents were found and when the police took the droid into custody. He has some idea of what happened."  
  
"But his anger is poisoning his testimony," Judge Wendell pointed out.  
  
"Please, give me a few moments with him. Maybe I can convince him to cut back on the inflammatory words."  
  
She refastened the neck of her robes. "All right, but if he can't calm down, his testimony is void." The look in Judge Wendell's eye brooked no objection.  
  
Declan caught up with Damon in the men's room, where he found the young man drying his face on a paper towel.  
  
"Are you all right, Damon?" he asked.  
  
"I'll pull through, it isn't easy, though," the younger man replied.  
  
"I can imagine. ...I hate to put it this way, but your anger is messing up your testimony and it may get stricken from the record."  
  
"Look, I'm doing my best out there. If you think this is easy for me, you're wrong," Damon snapped.  
  
"I understand. It's not easy for me, handling cases like this day in and day out."  
  
"Just do your job. Just put that thing where it belongs."  
  
"Like I've told you, I'm only presenting the State's side of the case. What ultimately happens to the droid is for the jury to decide. But in order for them to do that, they have to know as much of what happened and why as we can piece together. As much as you know. Just the facts."  
  
Damon listened, breathing deeply, his nostrils flared a little. Then they relaxed. "All right. I think I can handle this."  
  
"I hope you can. I'm almost finished with you. But next you'll have to answer defense's questions. And Ms. Te has ties with the CRF. She's going to try everything she can to make you angry, so it looks like your parents may have been to blame for what happened."  
  
"She should know better! She wasn't there. She saw the tape from the security camera, just like everyone else."  
  
"She knows that. But she's a lawyer. She'll do everything she can to keep her client from ending up behind bars or being dismantled."  
  
"That's what he deserves, dammit!"  
  
Declan paused, drawing in a long breath to clear his head, letting the air circulate through his nasal passages and deep down into his chest and upper abdomen. He let the air out slowly between his lips. "Damon, what would you do if an Orga had killed your family?"  
  
Damon shrugged. "Put him on trial."  
  
"And what if he plead that he acted in self-defense?"  
  
"He'd have to give proof: it's not like my parents were trying to beat him to death and he had to fight them off."  
  
"That's true..."  
  
"Listen: are you working for or against me, because right now you sound like you feel sorry for that thing."  
  
"I'm only trying to figure out what happened, why B1-66-ER acted as he did." Declan looked at his watch. Their time was almost up. "Now... we have to go back in there. I want you to try to remain calm. If you feel yourself getting excited, I want you to stop and breathe in deeply, hold the breath for five counts and then let it out, count to ten, whatever it takes to help you keep your cool."  
  
Damon nodded. "I'll try that."  
  
They went out together, returning to the courtroom.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
"Were you present when your parents decided to have the defendant shut down?" Declan asked.  
  
"Yes, he discussed it with my mother and I at the dinner table about a month before ... the incident," Damon replied.  
  
"Was the defendant present?"  
  
"No, he was washing dishes the way he always did while we were eating."  
  
"Was there anyway the defendant could have overheard your conversation?"  
  
"No, there's a sunroom and a short hallway in between the kitchen and the dining room. He has good hearing, but I doubt he could have heard us from that distance."  
  
"Where were you on the afternoon of the incident?"  
  
"I'd gone out for the day. I had a business appointment with a client, a woman from Orleans Amusments about a design for a half-grav rollercoaster. After that, I went straight home, about three that afternoon."  
  
"Did you know your parents were going to have the defendant deactivated that day?"  
  
"Yes, I was going home to help them if they needed it, but I got stuck in traffic on I 90: a truck rolled over and there was a traffic jam on the Pike, so I was late getting home."  
  
"And when you got home, what did you find?"  
  
"I met the service crew from Cybertronics, waiting on our driveway. They told me they had stepped outside for a little while, when my father asked them to give him a minute to explain the situation to B1. but they'd heard nothing since. They told me they'd been out there for fifteen minutes. I had a passkey, so I bypassed the security system and let them in, by the front door."  
  
"And what did you find inside the house?"  
  
Damon licked his lips. His breath caught in his throat. He looked away for a moment, then turned back. "It was too quiet. I didn't hear any voices or anything. I asked the crew where they'd last been. They told me they'd been in the living room..." Damon paused. "So we went there.... and that's when we found my parents' bodies... lying there... there was blood all over the place..."  
  
"What happened next?"  
  
"I didn't know what to do. One of the crew called the police. Then I realized that... that robot must have done it, who else could be that strong? What else could have crushed my mother's head like that?"  
  
"So when the police came, what happened?"  
  
"While the crime scene people and the... people from the coroner's office were in the living room, the police started looking through the house. First they found blood in the drain of the bathroom sink. Then I lead them upstairs to the second floor... where we found that droid trying to sneak out by the back staircase. He tried stepping past the police, so they zapped him with some kind of electrical gun, like a stun gun for droids, they said. They told me what it was, but I don't remember the name."  
  
"Nothing further," Declan said, stepping down.  
  
Ms. Te stood up. "Before I begin cross-examining you, Mr. Varriteck, I just want you to know that you have my deepest sympathy. I never knew my father and my mother passed away just a year ago in a boating accident, so I know a little of what you must be going through.  
  
"Now... What's this I ran across about your father's gambling debts?"  
  
Damon's brow furrowed. "Hunh? What's that got to do with anything? My father's been in Gambler's Anonymous for twelve years now, ever since we nearly lost the house because of his debts. What are you getting at?"  
  
"Does your father have any enemies? Anyone he still owes money to? Any loan sharks or anyone else who might happen to own a similar droid?"  
  
"No. We had to declare bankruptcy, but we're better off than we were when he hit bottom. And besides that, we were the only people in the area who still had a droid that old. Everyone we know has a Mecha."  
  
"I see. ... It occured to me, as I was preparing for this case, that someone who wanted your family dead might have planted another droid in the house, optimized with assassin skill chips."  
  
Something rustled in the press gallery. Someone emitted a low, hyena-like hoot of laughter.  
  
"SSSSHHHHH!" someone who decidedly sounded like Sweitz hissed. The hyena laugh stopped.  
  
Damon rolled his eyes.  
  
"Objection: defense is clearly offering a futile argument!"  
  
"Sustained. Nice detail for a murder mystery, but keep to the matter at hand, Ms. Te," Judge Wendell ordered.  
  
"Nothing further," Ms. Te replied. She turned away from the witness box, her face drawn, her eyes a little glazed.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
Once the session had adjourned for the day, Declan and Glynnis left the courthouse by way of a back entrance and headed for a small pub nearby, to escape the press. Declan ordered a glass of non-alcoholic white wine, while Glynnis asked for some water.  
  
As they sat there at the bar, the two young reporters entered and sat down beside them. At the same moment, Declan looked up into the mirror on the wall behind the bar, and noticed a shadowy reflection of Ms. Te sitting at a table in the back.  
  
"Hey, can y' send a bunch of drinking straws to the Asian-lady lawyer with the secretary Mecha in the back?" McGeever asked the bartender.  
  
The tall, beefy man behind the counter looked down at McGeever. "Why? Whatcha gettin' at?"  
  
"So she can grasp at 'em, of course!" McGeever said, making groping motions with his hands, his eye on Ms. Te's reflection.  
  
Declan had to laugh at this, which revived his spirit almost more than the wine. Glynnis, sandwiched between Declan and McGeever, rolled her eyes and focused her attention on her glass.  
  
McGeever eyed the side of Glynnis's head. "What, y' didn't think that's funny?"  
  
Glynnis did not turn to McGeever as she spoke. "I'm feeling bad for her: she's trying so hard to win this case, she's hurting herself and her client."  
  
"Hey, that's one very, very good way to put it," Frank said, fumbling in his pockets for his notebook. He found it and jotted something on the first clean page he came to. "You mind if I quote you on that?"  
  
Glynnis smiled wanly. "You can have the quote, just don't give me credit for it. Don't even insinuate that I said it."  
  
Frank gave her a grateful smile, a boyish blush passing over his cheeks. "Oh? Oh, thanks."  
  
"So the case is falling into your lap, eh?" McGeever said, looking over Glynnis's shoulders at Declan.  
  
"I wouldn't say that," Declan said. "Ms. Te has to call in her witnesses: one of them is the next door neighbor, Marvyn Kunz, but I'm not sure about the other: she made mention of calling in an expert in the field of robotics, but she said security didn't put her at liberty to give out his name.  
  
"My goodness, who's in robotics that would require that kind of security?" Frank asked.  
  
"Ooh, the drama continues!" McGeever said, grinning over his vodka. "A mystery star witness!"  
  
Frank put his notebook back into his pocket. "Now, there was one thing I wanted to ask you about, Mr. Martin," he said. "I'd heard talk that that there was some... trouble at home for you."  
  
"Actually there was," Declan said. "Because of all the news hype, my daughter was teased by some of her classmates, including two boys who tried to beat her up."  
  
"Oh, that's terrible! Has this happened before?"  
  
"She's had other kids tease her on account of a case I was handling before, but she goes to a Catholic high school with a very strict 'No Bullying' policy. This is the first time it's ever escalated into something like this. But I saw to it that she knows how to defend herself. When she was eleven, I put her in martial arts training to help her learn self-discipline... and how to defend herself."  
  
"It works both ways," Frank said.  
  
"My worst concern is that in this case, it may have backfired and she took it too far," Declan added.  
  
"So, how are you handling this?"  
  
"The school has a homeschool program, so if need be, we'll take her out and my wife will teach her at home until this blows over."  
  
"Is that a good idea though? She'll be away from her friends," Glynnis said.  
  
"Well, for one thing, she's admitted she's one of the school 'geeks', and for another thing, she told me herself she feels like she has more enemies than friends there right now," Declan said.  
  
"Poor kid," Frank said.  
  
Declan looked up into the mirror: he noticed some of the news crew had discreetly slipped into the back and were now talking to Ms. Te. "I know," he said.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
When he got home that night, he found Sabrina waiting for him at the door, her eyes serious, her arms folded across her chest and her shoulders hunched slightly as if she were cold.  
  
"Sabby, what's wrong?" he asked, setting down his briefcase and putting his hands on her shoulders.  
  
"I think we need to change the phone number again," she said.  
  
Those crank calls, he thought. "What happened?"  
  
"About ten minutes ago, the phone rang. I thought it was you calling, or a customer I was expecting to call back, but... there was a man's voice on the other end of the line."  
  
Declan slid his hands from her shoulders down to her arms. "What did he say?"  
  
She bit her lip. "He... he asked if that 'tin... hugger' was there, or if I was messing with some lover-Mecha while you were gone."  
  
Her arms loosened then and she clung to him.  
  
"What did you do?" he asked.  
  
"I hung up. It was all I could do."  
  
"Does Cecie know?"  
  
"No. She's been upstairs in her room, working on her homework. She's got enough worries on her hands right now," Sabrina replied.  
  
He felt his stomach tighten at that. "Why, what happened?"  
  
Sabrina sighed. "Reporters were at the school, looking for her. Sister Rose, her homeroom teacher called me. I went there right away and took her home.... But I think they followed us."  
  
Declan ground his teeth, angered. "Dammit," he muttered. "I think we'd better take her out of school for a while."  
  
"I think we should have done that a little sooner," Sabrina said. She let him go and reached for a newspaper lying on the telephone table. She held it out to him without looking at it.  
  
The pages had been folded back to an item under "Local News".  
  
"DA Martin's Daughter Involved in School Fight."  
  
"Oh God, no!" he muttered, throwing down the paper. They could publish what they wanted about him, but why her?  
  
Sabrina had divined his thoughts. "Don't worry," she said. "I sent an email to the editor, setting the story right."  
  
Why did I ever agree to this case, Declan thought.  
  
To Be Continued.... 


	7. Star Witness for Defense

TITLE: "Motion to Deactivate" Chapter Seven -- Star Witness for Defense   
  
AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
ARCHIVE: Permission granted  
  
FEEDBACK: Please? Please?  
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Animatrix: Second Renaissence, Part I", its characters, concepts, imagery or other indicia which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, RedPill Productions, Warner Brothers, et al. Nor do I own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al.  
  
NOTES: Anothere unavoidable delay; Easter came up, and so did spring cleaning (I did try to bow out of it, but it's hard when you live at home...) ... But this chapter is well worth all the waiting, I assure you!  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
Chapter Seven -- Star Witness for Defense  
  
Saturday afternoon, Declan intended to spend that day raking leaves in the yard with Cecie, but around two o'clock, three TV news crews and several reporters from more than a few newspapers showed up. Before the crowd could start questioning them, and before Cecie started to get angry with them, Declan led his daughter inside.  
  
Sunday morning it rained, so the three of them were able to head out to Mass without a yammering escort of journalists. But the rain stopped before the Martins arrived home: when they came back to the house, they found two of the TV news crews waiting for them. Declan avoided looking at them as lead Sabrina and Cecie inside. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cecie looking back and giving the reporters the Look of Death.  
  
Once they got inside, Cecie turned to Declan, her fists doubled. "They're trespassing and they're being a public nuisence. Can't you get the cops after them?" she said.  
  
"They'd argue that I was interfering with the free transmission of ideas and information, that the public has the right to know as much as they can about this case: I know how the First Amendment gets lobbed around these days," Declan replied. "Besides, they haven't really been that unruly."  
  
"Yeah, but we have the right to be secure in our persons and on our own property," Cecie retorted.  
  
"I'm trying not to be as upset by all this, but I can't help agreeing with Cecie: they're intruding on our property," Sabrina said.  
  
The rain returned as a torrential downpour, forcing the camera crews to pack up their equipment and leave. But all through dinner and afterwards as the three of them sat in the living room watching one of Declan's homemade montages of movie clips (That evening's feature: Jackie Chan's greatest fight scenes) Declan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir, like small antennas trying to pick up something outside the living room window.  
  
The neck-prickling sensation didn't go away through the rest of the evening, not even while he brushed his teeth before he went to bed. He turned the bathroom window from opaque to translucent, so that he could see out but no one could see in. He couldn't make out anything specific, but he thought he saw a shadow move across the backyard.  
  
He turned the window back to opaque and shut the light out in the bathroom, then made the rounds of the house, arming the security system, putting the windows and doors on smart.  
  
He looked into Cecie's room to find she fallen asleep, curled up with a copy of Orwell's 1984. He turned off the flashlight she'd been reading with, put the book on the bedside table and drew the covers up over her shoulders before kissing her on the top of her head and going out.  
  
He heard the strains of a Chopin nocturne coming from downstairs; he followed the sound to the master bedroom where he found Sabrina waiting for him, curled up catlike on the bed, a mischevous little smile on her face.  
  
"Heard something that you like?" she asked.  
  
He smiled at this. "Well, it lead me to someone I'd like to see," he said.  
  
It had been some time since the last time they were together as man and wife; he'd slowed up a little, since he slid down the other side of fifty-five, but the fire in his heart was only banked down. Usually an important case like this was enough to damper that fire even more, but this tender moment was enough to make some of the tension in his soul slip away...  
  
Only some of that tension. The whole time, Declan still had that neck-prickling sensation that someone was watching them...  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
The phone had been oddly quiet all through the weekend. Declan had half-expected another of those calls to add to the burden of annoyance, but when nothing came, he hoped that the phone-call hecklers had given up that tactic.  
  
He thought nothing more of thistill he was shaving before the bathroom mirror Monday morning, watching the news headlines scrolling on the news ticker down the bottom. The upper corner of the mirror bore a small window containing information about his blood pressure, heart rate, skin temperature, a reminder to take his vitamins and herb supplements...  
  
And then, right in front of him, right at eye-level, a small window popped up from out of nowhere. The pop-up guard on the house Internet connection must need an update, he thought, as he reached with his free hand to close the window. But words popped up inside the window:  
  
Lisssen 2 mee, Mecha-fucker Drop that case and dont ever tak another droifd case U wil regrett ist!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
Down silicon, UP FLESH!!!!  
  
FleshWarrior  
  
The window closed itself. Declan let out a harrassed sound, set aside his shaver and glanced up at the health monitor readout: his heart rate had jumped several beats per second, and his skin temperature jumped a couple tenths of a degree. The reminder box changed messages: Did something startle you, Declan? Take a few slow deep breaths.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
"Wilson, my house 'Net connection has a bug in it," Declan told Wilson when he met him at the office.  
  
"Ooh boy, that doesn't sound good. Why, what happened?" Wilson asked.  
  
Declan described the strange message that had shown up on the bathroom mirror.  
  
"Hm. I'll have to take a look at your house server," Wilson said. "You mind if I come over tonight and take a look?"  
  
"No, just give me a chance to call Sabrina and let her know you're coming," Declan said.  
  
"Yeah, give her a chance to hide that Filipino lover-Mecha," Wilson teased. Declan knew he must have winced at this otherwise wisecrack: Wilson's grin became apologetic. "Whoops, that was a cheap shot. I'm sorry."  
  
"It's all right," Declan said, with a shrug, no harm done.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
"How long have you lived in the house next to the Varritecks' home?" Ms. Te asked her next witness, Charlie Vale, an elderly man in his late eighties, who bore his years lightly, as evidenced by the keenness of his eyes.  
  
"For as long as I can remember: I've lived in that house since my folks brought me home from the hospital when God made me new," Mr. Vale replied.  
  
"So... you knew the Varriteck family very well?"  
  
"Oh yes, we'd chit-chat over the fence between the yards, me and Mr. Henryk's father when we were young. Henryk came along when I was older, so he was just the neighbor's kid to me. Not that that lowered my estimation of him as a human."  
  
"And what about my client, B1-66-ER, did you know him well?"  
  
Vale smiled, almost nostalgically, but there was a hint of something else. "Oh yes, Sixer -- that was my name for him, he let me call him that, told me it was an interesting name, kinda like what Henryk's grandfather used to call him -- Sixer was one of the first robots I ever saw. Gave me the idea to go into robot maintenance, and I'm still at it. We'd talk every time we'd see each other, not that he was the most intellctual sort, but neither am I. We'd talk about everything, books we'd read, the weather, the Red Sox, the news of the neighborhood. I'd always ask him how he was doing. Usually he'd say he was doin' well... But once in a while he'd say he wasn't doin' quite so well. That didn't happen much when Henryk's grandfather was still alive, but once both the old men died and Henryk got the house, I couldn't help noticin' Sixer started... well, not complainin' like, but it seemed he had more and more bad days."  
  
" 'Bad days'? How would you describe those?"  
  
"Well, y' see, Sixer 'ud gotten along great with Karl, Henryk's grandfather, who'd bought Sixer, and Henryk's father was okay with him, just not as kindly as the old man had been. But Henryk... Henryk was a hard man, as Sixer told me."  
  
"Did Sixer ever tell you what made Henryk like this?"  
  
"Oh yes he did, told me in some detail. One of the first things after the old man passed away, Henryk wouldn't let Sixer read any of the books in the family library. I didn't like that, so I used to bring books to Sixer for him to borrow. Then Henryk wouldn't let Sixer come along on family outings to museums and such-like. Soon enough, the only times they let Sixer go out was to run errands and such. And on more 'n a few times, I saw Henryk pushin' Sixer around."  
  
"Pushing Sixer around how?"  
  
"Well, a couple winters back it was really cold, I mean so cold that the lubricant in Sixer's joints musta gotten sluggish while he was shovelling the driveway, so he didn't do as even a job as he usually does, got the edges crooked. So Henryk grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him back out, made him straighten out the edges.  
  
"Another time, last summer, an actuator in Sixer's shoulder stuttered, caused 'um to drop a tray of dishes while the family was havin' a cookout. Henryk had had a few, wound up gettin' mad at Sixer and hit him over the head and shoulders. Busted one of Sixer's visual receptor lenses.  
  
"Oh, and then a few years back, when Henryk had the trouble with the gambling debts, he threatened to put up Sixer as collateral for a mortgage, but he couldn't on account of the MIT Bill of Rights. So Henryk got mad as hornets and pushed Sixer down some steps, the ones into the living room."  
  
A disturbed rustle, like gasps of mild shock and disapproving clicks of the tongue rose from the press and the public galleries.  
  
"That's cruel!" Frank Sweitz murmured.  
  
Damon Varriteck, over in the public gallery, sat slouched in his chair, his whole being bore a look of annoyed boredom.  
  
Declan turned to the defendant. The droid sat bolt upright as usual, but his stamped metal face was turned toward the witness, tilted up slightly, as if it hung on every word this old man said, trustingly...  
  
"Do you think this might have influenced Sixer to choose such drastic means to defend himself?" Ms. Te asked.  
  
Declan felt his lips parting to release the objection forming in his mind, but he let it pass unspoken.  
  
Vale wagged his head. "It might have. Sixer's unusually curious for a droid of his make, and he's learned a lot of bad stuff about human behavior. I've never asked him point-blank about it, but I don't doubt bein' around humans so much has made him somewhat human. So yeah, he most likely learned some pretty bad behavior from the people he shoulda been able to trust."  
  
"Nothing further," Ms. Te said. As she stepped down, she darted a glance to Declan and lifted one eyebrow as if to say, 'Need we say more?'  
  
"Thank you, Ms. Te. Prosecution may now cross-examine the witness," Judge Wendell said.  
  
"Prosecution rests," Declan replied.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
Delcna noticed the two young reporters talking with Ms. Te as he emerged from the court room during the break between witnesses. Sweitz glanced toward him and raised one hand as if to say, 'just a minute; we're just hearing her side'. McGeever hung back from Ms. Te, but Declan noticed the small man darting glances at her, below her shoulder.  
  
At length, Ms. Te and her assistant moved on. Sweitz and McGeever then approached Declan.  
  
"Don't tell us you're lettin' that little girl and that old man blunt yer teeth, Martin," McGeever said.  
  
Declan ignored this remark.  
  
"Don't mind Hal," Sweitz said, with an apologetic smile. "He just thinks every good person is too good to be true."  
  
" 'Cause most of 'em are," McGeever sneered.  
  
"It's all right: I just didn't see any point belaboring the witness. He was telling everything he knew that quite possibly led up to the murder. He might be the defendant's only real friend in the world, if a droid can be said to have a friend."  
  
"I thought that myself," Sweitz said, jotting this all down, and ignoring McGeever's harrassed sigh of disapproval. "Would you mind if I quoted you on that? That Mr. Vale might be the defendant's only friend."  
  
"Not at all, I think it's the best and truest way to describe him."  
  
"And the truth is all I'm after," Sweitz said, jotting down the quote and underlining it, before they stepped away.  
  
"Just don't let that girl muzzle you," McGeever called to Declan over his shoulder.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
Once the assembly returned to the courtroom, Declan sensed something not right in the air: the balliff was speaking to Ms. Te, who bore a look of deep concern on her face.  
  
Once Judge Wendell emerged from her chambers, Ms. Te approached the bench and spoke with the judge in an undertone for a long moment. Judge Wendell frowned with concern, then turned to the assembly.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen..." her eye fell on Hammurabi's remote communication device. "Intelligent persons of the jury... prosecution, defense, members of the public and press, it has come to our attention that defense's next witness, Dr. Allen Hobby, is unable to be present to testify due to a domestic difficulty that needed his attention. This court is adjourned until 9 a.m. tomorrow morning."  
  
In a sense, Declan felt relieved, but being reminded of just who the next witness would be squelched the soundless sigh of relief rising in his chest.  
  
At least this announcement drew the attention of the media away from him and onto Ms. Te, thus he and Glynnis were able to emerge from the courthouse largely unmolested by members of the press, most of whom were pestering Ms. Te.  
  
But as they descended the steps to the street below, something else came to his attention:  
  
He found himself looking down on a double crowd of people behind a thick metal barrier: to the right, a crowd bearing posters each decked with anti-Mecha slogans and the flame-surmounted fist of the ARM, the Anti-Robot Militia, to the left, another crowd bearing posters and picket signs each with pro-Mecha slogans and the stylized white-on-black flower of the CRF, the Coalition for Robotic Freedom. A few people in the crowd to the right brandished what looked like severed metal limbs, while in the crowd to the left, Declan noticed several droids and Mechas quietly holding up signs. But from the blankly puzzled looks on the faces of the Mechas, he wondered if they really understood what was going on. The crowd on the left chanted slogans, but angered distorted their words so much he hardly understood them. The crowd on the right also chanted, less angrily, but no less vehemently.  
  
"Vindicate the Varritecks!" "Defend the Defenseless Droids!"  
  
"Justice for Man!" "Justice for Mechas!"  
  
"Blood Cries out on Metal Hands!" "Ownership Does Not Mean Tyranny!"  
  
"Back door?" Glynnis asked.  
  
"No, they'd just call me a coward," Declan said, leading the way.  
  
A couple police officers and two courthouse security Mechas approached and escorted Declan and Glynnis down to the sidewalk. The ARM nuts screamed curses at the Mecha, and a few tried to climb over the barrier, but more police approached to hold them back.  
  
"We tried to send them across the street, but they insisted on gathering here," one of the police told Declan, though he hardly made out the rest of what the man said.  
  
Declan made no reply. There was nothing to be said, and he might not be heard anyway...  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
On the drive home, Declan switched on the radio, tuning it to the local PRI station. Just in time for the news:  
  
"In national news, the B1-66-ER trial in Massachusetts is about to heat up more than it is: Dr. Allen Hobby, one of America's foremost roboticists is about to take the stand to testify in defense of the serving-robot on trial..."  
  
Declan switched off the radio. National news, eh? he thought with a sour smile. The way the reporters have been all over this story, it stands to reason. Wait till Hobby actually *does* take the stand...  
  
He said as much to Sabrina when he got home.  
  
"It gets better," she said. "Take a look at the tabloids in the supermarket check out line."  
  
"Is that supposed to be a subtle way of telling me we need a few things at the store?" Declan asked.  
  
"I was gonna bake that honey-glazed chicken you like, but we're out of honey and I need a bottle of vitamin C."  
  
"Okay, I'm on it," he said.  
  
Once he arrived in the market, Declan noticed a few people were staring at him, at least when they clearly thought he couldn't see them staring.  
  
As he waited in line while a myopic old woman three heads ahead of him fumbled with the self-serve check-out his eye turned to the magazine rack to his right.  
  
On the National Enquirer: Declan Martin: His Own Shadowed World, complete with a picture of him and Glynnis that had clearly been taken while they were trying to slip out of the courthouse.  
  
On the World Weekly News: B1-66-ER's Lawyer in Love With Her Client???  
  
He picked the Enquirer up and paged through it till he found the article... The criminal record was simply an exaggerated version of the mild traffic violations he'd made when he was still in college, although they tried to make him seem at fault for the time he'd been trying to paralell park on a one-way street and he got rammed by a drunk driver who was going the wrong way. His left hip twinged with phantom pain at the memory.  
  
They blew Cecie's difficulties at school completely out of proportion: To hear them say it, she was the class delinquent. He was tempted to send them a letter of complaint, but he knew that would only turn into more grist for the rumor mill.  
  
But the last item had him seeing red for a split second:  
  
"SABRINA MARTIN: IS SHE FOR REAL???"  
  
"Few people have seen Martin's wife Sabrina around their home town of West Hillston, Mass. The few that have report that she hardly says much at all and that she seems preternaturally content with staying home making silk flowers and tending to the housework.  
  
"Sound like a Stepford wife to you? there's more...  
  
"Four years ago, Sabrina Martin underwent massive treatment for ovarian cancer at New Boston's Dana Farber Cancer Institute. Before that she had been an active, even slightly wild gal who enjoyed going biking on weekends with her girlfriends. After that, her behavior changed to its present mousiness. Inside sources tell us that evidence suggests that something dire happened to Sabrina Martin and that, in his distress, Mr. Martin had her resurrected in Mecha form.  
  
"Given Declan Martin's overtones of Mecha hatred, we can only hope that the Mecha form of Sabrina Martin does not endure the brunt of it."  
  
Granted, Sabrina used to go biking with him when they were younger, and he'd bought the sidecar for the motorcycle when she'd had a rather nasty spill falling off the back once, but the reason they'd hit the road less in recent years had more to do with his accident than with her illness, though that had been part of it. She'd never been very outgoing, but she went for a long walk around town every morning, and everyone in town knew her. But saying she was a Mecha?!  
  
Then a side-bar like column caught his eye:  
  
"Glenn or Glynnis?: Behind Closed Doors at the DA's Office"  
  
"Visible throughout the B1-66-ER trial has been a tall, slender red-headed young person known as Glynnis Miesel, EADA Declan Martin's legal aide... and much more.  
  
" 'Ms.' Miesel's employment records show that 'she' was born Glenn Markhalt, an obvious male who played several intermural sports while growing up in an affluent neighborhood in Stowe, Vermont.  
  
"But after graduating from Harvard Law School and being employed by the Springfield District Attorney's office, Markhalt became enamored of the Executive Assistant District Attorney. But finding that Declan Martin was attracted only to the fair sex, Markhalt went under the knife and emerged as Glynnis Miesel."  
  
He'd been there when Glynnis was hired to the office, five years earlier. She'd been female then as far as he could tell, and he certainly did not recall her taking the kind of sick leave that kind of procedure would require.  
  
Just for a chuckle, albeit a wry one, he read the item about Jen Te:  
  
"Defense attorney and CRF activist Jen Te has passionately devoted much of her budding career to helping the Mecha rights movement, but her love for her metal and silicon brothers has risen to a new level of intensity. She has been spotted in the courtroom with her delicate lotus-blossom hand resting on the articulate metal hand of her client, B1-66-ER. A guard at the Springfield County House of Corrections, Kevin Johnson, has reported that the conversations between Ms. Te and her client have lasted, "longer than is appropriate."  
  
"A lawyer representing the family of the murder victims, Henrick and Barbara Varriteck, has also reported that Ms. Te has sought to buy her client's contract, apparently with the intention of giving the robot a taste of freedom. And over the weekend, Ms. Te was seen going into a bridal shop in Holyoke, Massachusetts. Although Mecha/Orga marriages are not allowed, is Ms. Te going to pop the question to the droid following the not-guilty verdict she has been fighting for?"  
  
He caught himself chuckling out loud at the utter absurdity of the item, which elicited a harsh stare from the frazzled-looking career woman behind him. True, he thought, as he replaced the magazine in the rack, Ms. Te was passionate about the case, but it certainly wasn't that kind of passion.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
Wilson showed up after dinner: Declan led him upstairs to the climate-controlled closet where the house server unit was kept. Wilson connected his laptop to the house network and set to work running a scan on the server's firewall. Sabrina and Cecie came up to watch. Wilson glanced up at Cecie. "Hey, shouldn't you be doing homework?" he asked, teasing.  
  
"I did it already," Cecie replied. "It was all homework."  
  
"We had to take Cecie out of school and have her switched into the school's home program, because of the trouble she had at school," Declan said.  
  
"Nothing wrong there: Dr. Allen Hobby was taught at home, and look where he is now!" Wilson said.  
  
"Really?" Cecie asked. She turned to Declan. "Isn't that the guy who was supposed to take the witness stand today?"  
  
"He was, but he couldn't make it: he had some kind of trouble at home," Declan said.  
  
"So I heard: I bet it's trouble with his kid, David," Wilson said. "The family's in the limelight so much, the poor kid can't have a normal life, so he kinda flips out. What price glory? That's why I'm just a sys-op for the Springfield County DA's office."  
  
"Or a bug-killer for your friends," Cecie said.  
  
Sabrina watched the screen of Wilson's laptop, but Declan knew from the pucker in her brow that she hardly understood a word of the filenames flickering by.  
  
The system pinged and a window with a red border popped up. "Oops, we got the bug," Wilson said. He set to work typing something, his thin fingers flying over the keyboard. "I'm extracting it... and updating your firewall. You really should update that at least once a year, same time as you update the security system."  
  
"I'll add it to the semi-annual to-do list, not that I'm the most technologically adept person in the world," Declan said. "Any idea who could have done this?"  
  
"The message was probably the same goon who's been sending you all the other love-notes, but the hack looked like the work of the Mad Frenchman, this uber-hacker out there. Firewalls practically melt at his touch, but no one has any idea who the cat is. But... I've got some code of my own to counteract any other attacks, something I cooked up myself, hard to break through."  
  
"I certainly hope so," Declan said.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
He managed to forget about the tabloid items till the next morning, when he arrived at the office to find Glynnis opening her snail mail, her movements very brusque, very unlike her. He could see the tendons tighten on the backs of her hands.  
  
"Something wrong?" he asked.  
  
She flung down the envelope she had just torn open. "Those damn tabloids," she said. She yanked a small sheaf of paper from under her mail and shoved the papers to Declan. He took it, finding someone had faxed her a copy of that tabloid item.   
  
"Yeah, I read that last night when I was waiting in line at the store. That was so ridiculous," he said.  
  
"Well... you know how the saying goes, gossip lies nine times out of ten, and one time out ten tells a half-truth? Let me give you the real truth." She paused, drawing in a long breath, as if she weren't sure how to put this into words, whatever it was.  
  
"You don't have to tell me if you aren't ready to," Declan said, not quite sure he really wanted to hear it. "I can respect your privacy."  
  
"No, it's not that; it's better if you hear it from me anyway... When my parents got their license to have a family, they wanted a son. They didn't believe in using the services of a fertility clinic, so they made me the old-fashioned way. But then they had an amniocentesis done when I was still in the embryonic stage, and they found out I was a girl. So, they had surgery done on me in utero when I was a little more developed and had me implanted with male organs that some lab had grown in a vat.   
  
"And then, when I was born, they expected me to be all boy as I grew up: had me playing several different sports, put me in karate, when I really wanted to stay home and paint pictures or read mystery novels. But the whole time, even when I was really small, I had this wierd feeling that something wasn't right. I never really hit puberty either, not the way the other boys did: I didn't shoot up like a weed and my voice stayed the same.   
  
"Finally, when I was in high school, and this girl wanted me to marry her, we started going through the licensing process, having physical examinations, getting a genetic profile of each other... and it came out that I had two X chromosomes and no sign of any Y chromosomes. Thety told me that genetically I was female and that there were signs I'd undergone some kind of genital manipulation. That's when my parents finally broke down and told me the truth.  
  
"I went a little crazy then: took some of the money I'd saved for college and had the surgery reversed. It's not right to make a kid be something that they aren't just because it's what you the parent want. I'm a free-thinker, you know that, but I didn't think it was right for my software not to match my hardware, especially since my parents ordered the mis-match."  
  
"It's like trying to make Windows 2100 run on a Mac," Declan said, with a smile of quiet humor just touching the corners of his mouth.  
  
Glynnis managed a smile of her own. "Or like having an intelligent machine be a non-sentient can-opener and nothing more."  
  
"You think I should inform that paper that they may be facing libel charges, unless they retract these articles?" Declan asked.  
  
She shook her head. "Not unless this hits the mainstream news. But if that should happen, I want to deal with it myself."  
  
"Wise choice," Declan replied. "If I helped you out, it might lead the people who started the rumor to think there was something real to their fables. You want me to have that fax number traced?"  
  
"That's my job also: you got enough on your mind right now, since you're cross-examining Allen Hobby today."  
  
"You know, those stupid tabloids made me almost forget that... or at least forget how much it's bothering me," he said.  
  
"I guess in that case, those dumb articles proved somewhat useful," Glynnis noted.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
"Defense requests the testimony of Dr. Allen Hobby, roboticist," Ms. Te announced.  
  
A rustle of excitement flickered through the press gallery as the balliff entered, leading in a tall, sturdy-built manwith a high intelligent forehead and medium-blonde hair, starting to recede only a little.  
  
"Is this *THE* Allen Hobby?" Sweitz asked McGeever, with excited awe.  
  
"Yep, that's him, that's touchy-feely-Mechas-with-self-motivated-reasoning-parameters guy," McGeever replied, with a hint of irritated irony.  
  
Declan had seen Ms. Te's list of witnesses, and he'd heard of Dr. Hobby's work in designing and creating Mechas, the more human-looking species of robots, but seeing the name was one thing: seeing the man behind that eminent name was another matter entirely  
  
The baliff had Hobby place his hand on a copy of the World Bible, a book containing the first few pages of every religious text of every belief system  
  
"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so may the Higher Power help you?" the balliff said.  
  
"I swear," Dr. Hobby replied.  
  
Ms. Te approached the stand, her face calm, but her hands clasping and unclasping with nervousness. "You are Dr. Allen Hobby, principal roboticist and one of the board members of the Cybertronics Corporation of New York, am I correct?"  
  
"Yes, I am," the witness replied.  
  
"And your company manufactured the model B1 series, of which my client is unit number 66-ER?"  
  
"That is correct: the B1 series was the best selling line of our company's early designs, before production switched to more precisely human-looking replicas."  
  
"And you played a role in the programming of this model?"  
  
"Not specifically since that was well before I first joined Cybertronics. But in producing the B1 series, the company sought to make a robot which could serve the general public as an all-purpose serving unit: as anything from working in hotels and store back rooms to serving as house-help. Because we were expecting it would interact with humans more than most service droids at that time, it was necessary to give this model more complex personality programming and more human-like speech. And, as has been brought to my attention by more than a few repair technicians, over time these robots became more human-like in their behavior."  
  
"Would you say they developed something like self-consciousness?" Ms. Te darted an eye toward Declan as if she expected him to object to this. Declan ignored the bait.  
  
Dr. Hobby furrowed his brow slightly at this non-verbal exchange, but proceeded to answer the question. "Some did, including, as I deduced from the maintenance logs of B1-66-ER, and more importantly, from interviewing the unit myself, the present defendant."  
  
"Did you ever speak with my client personally at any great length?"  
  
"I did, partly for the preliminary preparation for the present trial, partly for the research I have been conducting toward creating self-motivated reasoning parameters in future Mecha designs. With the help of my colleague Jeanine Salla, a computational psychologist also at Cybertronics, I eaxamined B1-66-ER and found its logic parameters unusually flawless for a robot of its age, one might even say they had defied entropy and developed. In terms of behavior, his mannerisms and voice are stilly very, one might say, 'robotic', but its vocabulary and speech patterns are highly developed, even animated without giving way to flights of emotion."  
  
"You mentioned emotion... is my client capable of feeling genuine emotion?"  
  
"Robots of this design are not gifted with the ability to emulate emotion, unlike more recent designs, known as Mecha. But 66-ER has somehow developed a kind of proto-emotional ability. In a test I conducted, I swung a long metal rod at the defendant's head, as if I would strike him without warning. An ordinary robot of any design, would step out of the path of the rod. But... and this is worthy of note... 66-ER not only stepped out of the path of the rod entering the space around its body, but also raised both hands as if to push away the rod or take it from my hands."  
  
"Does any other droid do this?"  
  
"No, not in my experience, not in Dr. Salla's, and I have not heard any other robopsychologist report this."  
  
"What about a proximate threat? Say if someone threatened to destroy or dismantle the defendant, what would *he* do?"  
  
Declan noticed the emphasis Ms. Te put on the personal pronoun she used to refer to her client.  
  
"That question brings to my mind a conversation I deliberately initiated with 66-ER. I asked it directly what it would do if someone said to it, 'B1-66-ER, I am going to destroy you,' or some variation on that. The unit replied that it would take the means necessary to prevent that from happening to it."  
  
"Did he say anything about the Varritecks?"  
  
"The unit simply told me it did not wish to die."  
  
Ms. Te stepped down. "Nothing further."  
  
Declan had a dozen questions come to mind, but as soon as Ms. Te seated herself beside the defendant, they all went out of his head. He touched the St. Thomas More medal in his pocket as he rose and approached the witness stand.  
  
"Are you familiar at all with the history of the defendant's employment by the Varriteck family?" he asked.  
  
"I must admit that I am not familiar with the day-to-day particulars of 66-ER's employment, but in coversation, the unit revealed to me some of the change in attitude the ascending generations of the family had toward the unit and its performance. It even asked me why they grew, and I quote, 'so cold' toward it."  
  
"Cold, how?"  
  
"It particularly noted that Henryk Varriteck never once praised the work the unit accomplished for the family, or for that matter, even took note of it except to find fault with it. In fact, as time went by, Mr. Varriteck's attitude became increasingly hostile."  
  
"Hostile in what manner?"  
  
"He would often push the droid out of his way if it did not move quickly enough. He even grew angry enough with it that he struck it on several occasions, damaging it and even nearly knocking it down. And he did nothing to correct his son for teasing it."  
  
"Teasing it? How did that happen?" This was new to him.  
  
"The droid described to me several instances, when Damon, the Varriteck's son, was still quite young, that the young man deliberately tripped it with a broom handle hooked around the inside of its ankle, or stretching a thin rope across a walkway when the droid was approaching, carrying a pile of things, or, most often, throwing things at it."  
  
"What? Come on, I was just *kid* then! I did dumb things like every kid does," Damon cried out, jumping to his feet.  
  
Judge Wendell silenced Damon with a cold glare. "Mr. Varriteck, you have had your chance to testify, if prosecution chooses to call you a second time as a rebuttal witness, you may speak then. However, now is decidedly not the time for it. Proceed, Mr. Martin."  
  
Declan collected his scattered thoughts. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Damon sit down in silence, but he could feel the anger that darkened the young man's brow.  
  
"Do you think this could have inspired the defandant to have acted in a violent manner towards his owners?" Declan said, proceeding with the cross-examination.  
  
"Objection, speculatory," Ms. Te said.  
  
"Witheld," Judge Wendell said. "Rephrase the question, Mr. Martin."  
  
"Is it possible for a droid's behavior to be conditioned by example or by the way the owner treated it?" Declan asked.  
  
"It is possible, you cannot have true artificial intelligence without a machine's being able to learn from its owners or other persons it interacts with, and in many instances, this has extended to behavioral patterns."  
  
"In that case, is it possible that a droid, such as the defendant, exposed to violent behavior or which was subject to abuse, might learn to use violence as a means to an end?"  
  
Hobby paused, thinking, then at length he spoke. "There are few reported instances of something like this happening, but usually a violent artilect already has some internal malfunction that contributed to its outburst."  
  
"But is it possible for a droid that has known abuse to choose violence to solve a problem?"  
  
"Objection, pure speculation!" Ms. Te cried.  
  
"Sustained, " Judge Wendell said. "As interesing as this theory is, Mr. Martin, there is no place for it here."  
  
"Excuse me, your honor, but this is more than a mere theory: some of my recent research has turned up evidence that supports this theory," Dr. Hobby put in. "May I answer that question?"  
  
"You may," Judge Wendell said, but she seemed unconvinced.  
  
"It is possible, and based on my conversation with the defendant, it has happened to him," Dr. Hobby said.  
  
"Nothing further," Declan said, stepping down.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
The media spotlight -- even the protestors' attention -- shifted away from him and onto Hobby, which bought Declan some time to slip into the pub down the street from the courthouse. He seated himself in a booth where he could be inconspicuous, but a few moments later, Dr. Hobby came in and approached him, accompanied by a small, slender woman with light brown hair and steady greenish-blue eyes. Declan caught himself staring just a little when he realized the woman's skin had an odd sheen to it, very unlike a human's skin.  
  
"Mr. Martin, would you mind if I joined you?" Dr. Hobby asked.  
  
"I wouldn't advise it, since we're still in the middle of the trial, and I might be accused of trying to influence you," Declan replied.  
  
"Not to brag, but I doubt anything you say to me could influence my opinion of this case. I've approached it with a certain detached interest: interest only because it relates to my field of expertise and because it relates to one aspect of it I have been studying for quite some time," Hobby replied.  
  
Declan shrugged and held out his hand, palm up toward the other seat in the booth. "Be my guest."  
  
Hobby sat down, his young companion seating herself beside him, her back still perfectly poised.  
  
"Are you stressed, Mr. Martin? Perhaps you should consider drinking some chammomile tea," the young woman said.  
  
"Thanks, but I'm afraid I'm allergic to it; the pollen bothers me" Declan replied, trying not to sound puzzled.  
  
"I am very sorry to hear that," the woman replied.  
  
"Please don't mind Sheila, she can be at times... not nosy but a little heavy-handed in offering comfort. She's a new secretary-companion model we've been beta-testing," Hobby said.  
  
"I couldn't help wondering... if she was Mecha or not. I'm sorry if I was staring," Declan said.  
  
"It's quite all right," Hobby said.  
  
The door opened admitting the two reporters from the 'Independant', who came in and sat down in the booth behind where Declan and Hobby sat. Sweitz was chattering about something Declan didn't catch, but McGeever turned and peerred over the back of his seat with narrowed eyes.  
  
"Hey, that the modified S2 model?" McGeever asked.  
  
Hobby looked up. "Yes... do you follow the new models being introduced?"   
  
"Well, let's say if this were an alternate universe, I'd be sittin' where you are, Doc," McGeever said, condescention quirking his tone.  
  
"Hey, Hal, let 'em alone," Sweitz said, rising and approaching Declan. "I'm sorry: Hal's just been a little... outspoken in his opinion of Dr. Hobby's work, I mean, your work, sir..." Sweitz dropped his gaze, embarrassed as his young face turned bright pink.  
  
"It's all right, I should be accustomed to the critics in the media," Hobby replied.  
  
"You mind if we let you fellas talk alone?" Sweitz asked.  
  
"Not to sound like I'm throwing you youngsters out, but I'd prefer that you did," Declan said.  
  
"No problem here," Sweitz said, nudging McGeever to rise and join him at another table.  
  
"I heard your family's had trouble with the media bothering you," Hobby said. "My wife Caroline and our son David have had our share of that species of trouble, so I have a complete understanding of what you must be going through."  
  
"We've had a few incidents in the past, but nothing like this: they just won't let up," Declan said.  
  
"Consider what the case you're covering entails: Relations between man and machine have always been strained, even before things as simple as toasters started to be implanted with sentient programming chips," Hobby said. "There was one instance, back in the 1970s, when assembly line robots were just coming into use in this country that a man was accidently crushed by a robotic spot-welding arm: the papers gave it the headline 'Assembly Robot Kills Man', not 'Man Dies in Factory Accident'. Long before that, in the early 1800s, the Luddites smashed looms in textile mills throughout Great Britain, in fear that the machines would replace them as weavers. Machines still need people to design them and program them, although we have a few artilects that are capable of assisting in the programming and design processes. They may make life easier for us, but they will not obsolesce us or take over our planet as the ARM would lead you to believe. It's more complicated than it really is, and I am doing my utmost to keep this simple."  
  
"Simple... when I took this case, I thought it looked so simple on the surface," Declan said, looking into the depths of his barely-touched glass of white wine. "But as soon as I started to dig below the surface, things started to pop up that I just didn't expect. I'm not robo-phobic, but at first, I thought it was simply a case of a robot going amok because it malfunctioned. But come to find out this thing called First Law is built into every robot to prevent them from hurting a human. And yet, *this* robot bypasses First Law and kills its employers, just to keep from being killed itself. It's like a prisoner in a concentration camp killing the camp commandant who ordered a guard to shoot the prisoner. How am I supposed to try this?"  
  
"It's a conundrum, and these conundrums will continue to appear in our courts as long as Orgas are unable to accept Mechas and artilects as another, equitable species with as much right to exist on this planet as they do. You have to do what you can so that each side will benefit."  
  
"But what do I do? I've been arguing the State has the right to defend its citizens' lives, while the defendant's case has been claiming this robot has the right to defend itself as well. Am I to sacrifice the rights of the many for the rights of the few? If I change my tack and the jury gives a not-guilty verdict, who's to say this robot won't kill again? And if I stay to the argument I've chosen, will the jury choose a guilty verdict and send a robot to destruction when he only wanted to live?"  
  
"I'm a scientist, not a lawyer, but I'd leave it in the jury's hands to descide. They're all intelligent enough to make their own decisions.  
  
"But," Hobby continued. "There was something I need to discuss with you, which is why I approached you in the first place."  
  
"What did you have in mind?" Declan asked.  
  
"I've been very curious about this case, from the moment I was asked to examine the defendant, and even before that, when the news first came to the media's attention. You know that Damon Varriteck is suing Cybertronics for wrongful death."  
  
"I did try to warn him not to do that, but he insisted," Declan said.  
  
"Our company has reached a settlement with him: we've awarded him 800,000 NB in damages. But... in the event that the jury finds 66-ER guilty, I wanted to know if you could have the memory cube of the defendant turned over to Cybertronics, so that an in-depth analysis can be made to determine exactly what happened."  
  
"Why would you want that?"  
  
  
  
"For a number of years, in fact, for most of my life, I have been conducting on-going research into the possibility of creating self-motivated reasoning programming for newer models of Mechas, to help them become more like us and therefore, we hope, more accepted among mankind. My hope is that, with this kind of programming, Orgas will be able to see Mechas as a new class of humans, not just a slave class to be exploited."  
  
"I'm afraid I don't follow..." Declan said.  
  
Hobby reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and took out a small case which he opened, and took from it a small dissecting needle. "Look at it this way," Hobby said. "As it stands, Mechas are unable to feel genuine emotion."  
  
He reached over and tookd Sheila's hand by the wrist, laying it flat on the table top. He thrust the dissecting needle into her hand.  
  
"OUCH!" the Mecha-woman screamed. Hobby let her hand go. She jerked it away, then laid it on the table as if nothing had happened. A few of the other patrons in the pub looked up, but no one moved to object.  
  
"Sheila, what did you feel?" Hobby asked her.  
  
The Mecha, looked at her master, considering this. "I felt the point of the needle break through my dermis, I felt impulses to pull my hand away to prevent further damage."  
  
"But what else did you *feel*? Indignation? Shame? Fear?"  
  
The Mecha woman looked at Hobby, her eyes gone blank with confusion. "No, I felt none of those," she replied, frankly.  
  
"Can't you program them to understand the meanings of the words?" Declan said, realizing as soon as he said it, that this would hardly be enough.  
  
"We can give a Mecha a dictionary definition of emotions, but it's like explaining integral calculus to a person with an IQ of 75. We have devised ways in which they can emulate emotive behavior, but it does not penetrate their being the way it does with us."   
  
"So... you think B1-66-ER is moving toward that, toward having true emotions?"  
  
"Yes, and if we could find out why this happened, this might be the key toward creating a robot that can feel and truly express the broad range of human emotion."  
  
"I'm afraid I really don't have the authority to do that," Declan said. "You'd have to talk with Brock Thompson, the head of the DA's office, or Judge Wendell. They'd have more say in the matter than I do. I just present cases."  
  
"Tell them it's simply a matter of donating the defendant's body to science," Hobby said.  
  
"I'll see what I can do," Declan said, hoping he sounded as if he could make no real guarantees.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
He found a surprise awaiting him when he got home. The reporters had left the yard: apparantly, that had something to do with the police car parked in front of the house, near the end of the driveway. Declan pulled into the driveway and got out to approach them.  
  
The cop in the driver's seat, a sturdy young African-Asian man whom Declan recognized as Tobe Jackford, a member of the Westhillston police force, rolled down the window and stuck his head out. "Hiya, Marty. We heard yah had a little problem with some trespassers tresspassin' so we came to keep 'em off your rhododendrons."  
  
"Thanks: I really appreciate that," Declan said. "You fellas staying out here all night?"  
  
"Just till midnight, then the graveyard shift comes on, but you'll have someone out here at least till you finish up with that case."  
  
"Good, good, you fellas stay warm," Declan said, and went inside.  
  
When he stepped into the kitchen, Sabrina was taking a baking pan of roasted pork chops out of the oven, which she set down to cool on the draining board next to a pan of cornbread.  
  
"Did you call for the police watch?" Declan asked her.  
  
"Those darn reporters got so impossible... they were peeking into the mailbox! I finally called Thompson and asked him what to do. He called Rikert at the police station and asked him to send someone to keep an eye on us."  
  
"Now what Stepford Wife would do something like that?" he said, hugging her gratefully from behind.  
  
"You looked at those stupid newspapers?" she asked, with a quirk of a smile.  
  
"Yeah, last night in the checkout."  
  
"I guess that makes us famous now," she said, slipping out of his hold to finish her work.  
  
"Or infamous," he said, going into the bathroom to wash his hands.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
The three of them managed to have a quiet dinner; Cecie seemed more calm than she had in a while. The phone did not ring.  
  
Later still in his study, Declan was reaching for the phone to check his voice mail when it literally rang under his hand. He picked it up.  
  
"Which side are you on, Martin?!" a young man's voice shouted at him.  
  
"Hello?" Declan asked, holding the receiver an inch away from his ear. "Who is this?"  
  
"It's Damon Varriteck, the guy whose parents you're supposed to be defending after their own robot killed them, remember? what the hell were you doing today?! You're supposed to be prosecuting that droid, not making my family look like they were asking to be killed!"  
  
"Damon, please, calm down, take a deep breath and tell me -- "  
  
"No, you listen to me!"  
  
"Damon," Declan said, in a firm tone without raising his voice. "I realize how upset you are, but you have to realize this: this isn't as simple as it looks. I thought that myself, but the more we look at it, the less easy it is to draw the lines. I never intended to imply that your parents or you were responsible for what happened to them. B1-66-ER chose to act as he did and apparantly, some of the things that happened to him influenced him to choose as he did."  
  
"He didn't *choose*. Droids can't choose. They just follow what their programming tells them to do. That's that."  
  
"Maybe. Maybe not. I've been doing my homework on this, and I've found out from some pages on MIT's website, and a few others that robots are a little less deterministic than most machines, computers and things like that. They have to be that way in order to function among us humans. I've been wondering if there's something in 66-ER's mind that's making him even less deterministic, and thus, more like a human, giving him more options to choose from."  
  
"So you chit-chat with that scientist from Cybertronics over a few brews and now you're an overnight expert on robotics?" Damon sneered.  
  
This remark made Declan pause for a split second. He didn't remember seeing Damon in the pub, and before that, he hadn't seen the young man leave the courtroom. This made him wonder if Damon had been spying on him.  
  
"Damon, I was talking with Dr. Hobby just to get a few answers to some personal questions I had about this case. He was able to answer some of them, but not all of them."  
  
"Good, because they're probably the kind of questions no man has the right to know the answers to."  
  
Declan almost snapped back a reply, but he restrained himself. This young man's snappishness is as infectious as the common cold used to be, he thought.  
  
A scream shattered the stillness downstairs. Declan's ears strained to catch the sound. The voice was Sabrina's.  
  
"Damon, I can't talk right now. There's something going on here I have to take care of," Declan said. "Excuse me." He hung up the phone and rushed out of the room.  
  
He ran downstairs to the bathroom. He found Sabrina there, crouched on the floor, trembling and clutching her arm. Blood oozed from under her hand through a rip in the sleeve of her jersey. Broken glass from the window lay on the floor, surrounding a brick with a note tied to it. Declan helped her out of the room into the kitchen, and was just about to reach for the phone to call emergency, when someone knocked at the back door.  
  
"Who's there?!" Declan shouted, in case it might be the intruder.  
  
"Westhillston police: are you all right in there?"  
  
Declan helped Sabrina to sit down on one of the kitchen chairs, then opened the kitchen door. Two uniformed police officers entered, one of them took the comset from its holster on his shoulder and called for an ambulance.  
  
"We saw someone run through the yard, then we got a call from your security system that someone had broken a window and possibly injured someone inside the house," the second officer said. "We've got a K-9 unit coming in to search the woods."  
  
Sabrina's injury was only a nasty scratch, but it was still deep enough to require stitches and to be examined in case any shards of glass had lodged there. Declan went with Sabrina in the ambulance, while the police brought Cecie to stay with the Connellys until Sabrina was discharged from the hospital.   
  
Fortunately, no glass had lodged in Sabrina's arm, and the hospital released her immediately after her wound had been closed and covered with biotape. Declan called a cab and brought her to the Connellys' house.  
  
Peter, Declan's cousin on his mother's side and nearly twelve years younger than he, let them in and brought them into the kitchen, where his family -- hise wife, Georgette and their twin son and daughter Stephen and Philomena -- had gathered around the table. Cecie sat in their midst, huddled sullenly on her chair.  
  
Declan sat down beside her. "You okay, Jade?"  
  
She uncurled and put her hands on his arm. "Is Mom okay?"  
  
Sabrina joined them at the table, her arm in a sling, but with no other sings of injury. "I'm okay now: I just have to heal."  
  
"We heard about what happened to you," Peter said. "I talked it over with Georgette and we decided to let you stay here: it'll be safer for you."  
  
Declan shook his head. "No, I can't endanger you."  
  
"Nonsense," Peter said. "We're family; we have to help you."  
  
"You don't know the kind of hell we've been going through the past week," Declan said. "The emails, the phone calls, the bug on our house server, the reporters in the yard. Now this. Don't think we're being ungrateful. Much as I'd like to accept the offer, Sabrina and I talked this over on the way here."  
  
"We'll stay the night here, but in the morning, we're going to a hotel and rent a room there till the end of the trial," Sabrina said.  
  
Cecie sniffed. "Is it gonna be any safer there?"  
  
"Yes, for one thing, they have better security, for another thing, we'll be harder to find," Declan said. "The cranks will have to search for us through all those rooms."  
  
Peter nodded, accepting Declan's decision, then led the Martins to the guest room upstairs. "I hope you're sure this is the right decision. Just remember, you're free to stay here as long as you want."  
  
"I think we've chosen the best course of action," Declan said, helpin Sabrina up the stairs. He might not be able to get to the bottom of this case, but at least he knew how to take care of his family...  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
To be continued... 


	8. Rebuttal Evidence

TITLE: "Motion to Deactivate" Chapter Eight -- Rebuttal Evidence  
  
AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"  
  
RATING: Strong R, arguably NC-17 (Gruesome violence and gore)  
  
ARCHIVE: Permission granted  
  
FEEDBACK: Please? Please?  
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Animatrix: Second Renaissence, Part I", its characters, concepts, imagery or other indicia which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, RedPill Productions, Warner Brothers, et al. Nor do I own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al.  
  
NOTES: I had every intention to get this chapter posted much sooner, but the content in it gave me the creeps, and therefore it took me forever to write it and to start typing it... And then when I was in the middle of typing it, my computer caught a spyware bug that killed the operating system, so I had to have the software reloaded... And then Internet connection got screwed up for some inexplicable reason, so it was one thing after another for the past few weeks.  
  
WARNING!: Extreme violence -- machine against human; if you've seen "Second Renaissence: Part 1" or read the comic book story "Bits and Pieces" on the movie website, you'll know what to expect. (Don't pin the blame on me: pin it on those Wachowski Brothers and their friend Geoff Darrow and their collectively wierd imaginations...)

Chapter Eight -- Rebuttal Evidence  
  
Declan managed to obtain a deferrment for the next trial session till the following day. Judge Wendell's patience was wearing thin, but since his family needed him on account of circumstances beyond his control, she relented: she'd had some trouble with the media bothering her as well, though certainly not on the same scale as the Martin family.  
  
Peter helped him move a few necessities from the house to the hotel where they were staying, and helped him patch up the broken window. The police were still keeping an eye on the house just in case anyone attempted something nasty. So far, no one had tried anything, and the police suspected that they'd given up targeting the house now that no one was in it.  
  
That evening, back in the hotel, Declan consulted the planner on his palmtop and found a flagged entry on it: "Bring Our Child to Work Day". He vaguely remembered Cecie mentioning it a while before the trial and all the commotion attendant upon it began.  
  
He consulted Sabrina first before he broached the subject to Cecie.  
  
"Do you think that's a wise move, though?" Sabrina asked. "The media was nipping at her heels too."  
  
"Well, it would show them that she's a basically normal young woman, not the troubled teenager they've portrayed her as," Declan said. "Besides, we can't keep her cooped up here and she wanted to go. My father used to say that whatever happens, you should try to keep your routine as normal as possible."  
  
"It's worth a try," Sabrina said. "But I guess the final decision is really for Cecie to decide."  
  
"Only one way to find that out," Declan said. He got up from the bed, went to the connecting door between their room and the next one and tapped on it.  
  
"Come in?" Cecie's voice called, from beyond it.  
  
He turned the knob and pushed the door open.  
  
Cecie sat cross-legged on the bed, typing on her laptop, with several school textbooks open around her on the bedspread. She looked up from her work.  
  
"You still want to come along tomorrow, Cecie?" he asked, perching himself on the edge of the bed.  
  
"Yeah, if they'll let me," she said. "I mean, I'm writing a piece for the school newsletter on the trial, kinda setting the record straight on what's going on. And I was wondering if you could help me sneak in a short little interview with B1-66-ER."  
  
"That won't be easy, his lawyer has been talking with the media on his behalf."  
  
She gave him one of her disarming smiles, the kind that showed the dimple in her chin. "I can find a way around her."  
  
"He's considered dangerous: I wouldn't want you put at risk."  
  
"I'll make it really short, just ask him a couple questions."  
  
"We'll see what we can do about that," he said.  
  
Next morning, Declan noticed the look of surprise on the face of one of the courthouse security guards as he and Glynnis, with Cecie between them entered.  
  
"This your little girl?" the guard asked, as the Mecha guard at his side scanned their National ID Cards.  
  
"Yes, this is her, this is Cecie," Declan said.  
  
"Oh yeah, it's take your kid to work day. The wife and I couldn't get a license, so she brought our cat to the travel office she works for. Thought for a minute you'd hired a new paralegal."  
  
Cecie smiled. "I'm a little young for that and besides, I'm gonna be a writer. I've got a good runing start: I write for the school newsletter."  
  
"Ooh, gonna cover the trial?" the guard asked, as the Mecha guard ran a metal-detector up and down her sides.  
  
"Yep, it's the biggest news story in Westhillston," Cecie said.  
  
A group of guards from the prison entered from a side door, leading the defendant to the main courtroom when Declan and his companions were entering. With Cecie at his side, Declan approached Johnson.  
  
"Good morning, Johnson."  
  
"G'd marnin', Misther Martin." Johnson's small eyes darted to Cecie's face. "Oi see y've brawt yer daughter today."  
  
"Yes, as a matter of fact, she wanted to know if she could interview the defendant, she's a writer for her school's newspaper."  
  
"So yer coverin' t' thrial, eh, Miss Marthin?"  
  
"Yes, it's the biggest story in Westhillston right now," Cecie said.  
  
Johnson's small eyes darted from her face to B1-66-ER's stamped-metal visage, then back to Cecie's face. "Ye shore yeh want that, choild?"  
  
"Please allow me to speak freely to her," B1-66-ER asked.  
  
Johnson glared at the droid, then drew his EMP. "Dawncher do nuthin' funny-loike. This is the disthrict attorney's daughter yer speakin' to."  
  
"I guessed that from the moment I saw Ms. Martin; her facial structure is similar to her father's," the droid observed.  
  
Cecie dug her palmtop out of the breast pocket of her coat. "So you worked for this family for how long?"  
  
"I served the Varriteck family for three generations. Herbert Varriteck bought me and had me licensed; his son Edward inherited me, and at his passing, my service passed on to his son Henryk," B1-66-ER replied.  
  
"Did you enjoy it?"  
  
"I found working for Mr. Herbert to be a rewarding experience," the droid replied. "He treated me almost as if I were an equal, though his wife found this notion utterly peculiar. His son Edward took his mother's viewpoint when I started serving him. And I am sorry to say that this pattern of behavior did not improve when Henryk inherited my contract."  
  
"That's so sad," Cecie replied. "But wait a minute... you said you were sorry to say that. What made you put it that way?"  
  
The droid tilted down its chin, as if it thought over her question. Then it looked straight at Cecie again. "I expressed it that way because I was stating facts that might be painful for you to hear. It is a common phrase to ease the blow of ones words, is it not?"  
  
"That's true," Cecie agreed. "I've just never heard a droid say something like that and sound like they meant it."  
  
"I am told, by two people whom I understand to be experts in robotics, that I am not like many other droids," B1-66-ER replied.  
  
At this point, Damon Varriteck emerged from a nearby group of reporters he had been speaking with and approached Declan. "Mr. Martin? I'd like to apologize for the way I spoke to you the other night. I heard about what happened to your family."  
  
"Word travels fast," Declan said, avoiding eye-contact with any members of the press. He noticed B1-66-ER's head come up sharply as Damon approached. Johnson nudged the droid with his nightstick and  
  
"Actually, I heard it from the police keeping an eye on your house," Damon replied. He reached inside his coat and took out a DVD case. "I went there last night to give this to you, but they couldn't tell me where I could find you."  
  
Declan eyed the thin black plastic box in the young man's hand. "What do you have there?"  
  
"I only finished having it put together last night," Damon said. "It's a scan from B1-66-ER's memory cube."  
  
"The next session is about to start in five minutes," Declan said. "I don't have the time I need to examine it before I can admit it, and I can't ask for another deferrment."  
  
"I bet you've had evidence turn up at the eleventh hour and you admitted it on the fly," Damon said. "Besides. I guarantee this will seal the case. You've seen how that lady lawyer for defense has been twisting the case -- and the jury -- around her little finger."  
  
Declan felt a curt reply rise in his mind, but he knew it would only exacerbate the situation.  
  
He reached out and took the DVD case. "All right, but I'm warning you: Judge Wendell is unlikely to admit it."  
  
"Mr. Martin, do the people wish to call a rebuttal witness?" Judge Wendell announced.  
  
Declan rose, his hand on the DVD case on the table before him.. He noticed a slight film of vapor on the plastic surface. "Your honor, new evidence has been brought to the people's attention."  
  
Judge Wendell eyed the case under Declan's hand. "Evidence of what nature?"  
  
"It is a disk containing visual scans from the defendant's memory log."  
  
"And how did the people obtain it?"  
  
"Your honor, it was given to me just moments ago this morning by Damon Varriteck, who arranged for a scan."  
  
"It's on extremely short notice," Judge Wendell replied, with an obvious sigh of irritation. "But you may proceed, Mr. Martin."  
  
Declan picked up the disk, turning to the jury, his mind hunting for the words to say. "Ladies, gentlemen, intelligent beings of the jury, it is not fully known what exactly this disk contains, but since the scans were made from the defendant's memory logs of the day of the murders, it is likely to contain images of a disturbing nature."  
  
He handed the disk to the bailiff, who had been setting up the DVD player and viewscreen. The larger man took the case, opened it, and removed the disk carefully before inserting it into the tray on the player. He glanced up at Judge Wendell, as if awaiting confirmation. She nodded to him: her gaze was calm, but a "let's get on with this" pucker had settled on her brow. The bailiff closed the tray and pressed the play button.  
  
The screen went blue then kicked over to black and white snow for a moment before jumping to an image: a view of a patch of parquet wood flooring, seen from above as someone dust-mopped it with precise, careful strokes. The image tracked back and to the sides and from time to time, a metallic foot protruded into the bottom of the frame.  
  
"B1? could you come in here for a moment?" a man's voice called. The view panned up from the floor, then panned across a dining room furnished in an elegant yet utilitarian manner before coming to rest on a tall, sturdy man in his mid-fifties with light brown hair flecked with grey patches, casually dressed in a black jersey under a marroon canvas shirt.  
  
"Yes, sir?" B1's voice asked.  
  
"There's something important I need to tell you. Could you come into the living room?"  
  
"Indeed, sir."  
  
The man, clearly Mr. Henryk Varriteck turned, leading the way out of the room and into a hallway leading to the living room. The viewer followed the man. From time to time a metallic creaking and grinding noise could be heard, but the sounds of voices in the living room soon covered them up.  
  
"I'll have to go out to the van to get those brochures," said a man in light grey coveralls, standing in front of the couch, his back to the viewer as Mr. Varriteck approached him.  
  
"Yeah, I'll have to get the fresh battery for the power interrupter: this one's out of juice," said a deep female voice from the other side of the room.  
  
The view panned across the room two technicians, a tall, well-built woman and a small Asian man, both in light grey coveralls, were at work, the man adjusting the metal straps on a restraint chair, the woman testing some small device that looked like an electrician's light meter.  
  
"I'm sure that any of your new models are worlds better than this walking scrapheap," said a woman's voice, with a slight nasal edge to it. The view panned back to the couch, coming to rest on Mrs. Varriteck, a heavy-set woman in her early fifties, plain-faced, even a little dowdy, with jaw-length hair of a muddy reddish-brown.  
  
"Oh they are," said a young man's voice, belonging most likely to the Asian man. "They practically look human except their skin's a bit shiny."  
  
"They are when you look at them," said the first tech, clearly Castleroux. "You'd hardly know that they're just a hundred miles of fiber optics inside."  
  
"Good. I never cared much for these antiquated mechanical designs," Mrs. Varriteck said, glancing toward the viewer without really looking at him.  
  
"Okay, you want us to step out for a minute while you brief the unit on what's about to happen?" Castleroux asked, turning to Mr. Varriteck.  
  
"Is that really necessary?" Mrs. Varriteck asked.  
  
"It is a good idea: many droids tend to hesitate less if their owner explains what's going on when the droid is about to be deactivated," Castleroux explained.  
  
"Besides, we gotta get a few gadgets," the female tech said. "I knew I shoulda checked this battery before we got here."  
  
The view shifted to the techs as they prepared to head out, then panned back to Mr. Varriteck, the frame angled a bit, as if the droid had cocked its head quizzically.  
  
"Sir, what is happening?" B1's voice asked, as the techs stepped out.  
  
Mr. Varriteck turned to face the viewer. "B1, we can't afford your upkeep any longer. We can't keep paying the repair bills, so we're going to have these techs shut you down permanently."  
  
Silence hovered for a moment, the view perfectly still. "I'm sorry. I don't understand," B1 said.  
  
"It would cost less to buy a new model than to keep throwing money away trying to fix this walking pile of junk," Mrs. Varriteck said, but she clearly intended for B1 to hear it.  
  
The view moved slightly closer to Mr. Varriteck. The dust mop swung into view, handle first, B1-66-ER's jointed metal hands gripping the wooden shaft, jamming the end like a stake through the Orga man's left eye. Blood and tissue spurted from around the mop handle. Mr. Varriteck staggered back a step or two before he faltered and fell over flat on his back. His mouth opened, emitting a thick, liquid groan as a rush of blood spilled out onto his chest.  
  
The view panned down, looking at the sprawled man on the floor, at the red stain seeping through the carpet under him.  
  
Mrs. Varriteck screamed, leaping up from the couch, and darted out of sight range. "Help! Help! Someone help us! It's gone mad!"  
  
The view panned, following her as she scrambled out of the droid's way, trying to run behind him and out the hallway. She tripped on the steps leading up from the living room.  
  
The view approached. B1's hands took her by the shoulders, pulling her up onto her feet as he turned her back into the room, facing him. She looked up at him in terror, panting, her face pallid, her pupils dilating and contracting with fright. She tried to pummel at the droid, but he did not let go.  
  
Instead, his hands came up and took hold of the sides of her head, first one, then the other. The angle of view changed as they edged closer to the back wall of the room. Still holding her head, he pushed her down onto her knees.  
  
"Oh God! Oh God, help me!" the woman cried. "Please don't hurt me! Please don't make me die!"  
  
The metal hands closed tight about her head, the view so close nothing else could be seen. The grip tightened, squashing her face, forcing her nose to wrinkle and her mouth to pooch out. The fingers tightened around her temples, forcing the eyes from the sockets. The teeth splintered from the jaws and her speech became an inarticulate wail of pain. The skull under the skin creaked, then buckled, distorting the face out of recognition. With a sickening splrtch! the droid's hands pulled the woman's head in two, the brain splattering over the wall behind the headless corpse as it toppled to the floor.  
  
The view turned down, looking at the disfigured corpses lying sprawled at the droid's feet, then turned away, heading for the hallway. Then it hesitated. The droid raised its hands before its eyes, clearly scrutinizing the blood dripping from the finger segments, the strands of tissue snagged in the joints. The hands moved out of sight range as the view moved purposefully up the hallway and into a bathroom, where the droid meticulouslywashed its hands in the sink, careful to stop and wipe the blood from the faucet handles with a few squares of bathroom tissue, then flushed the gory paper down the toilet.  
  
Declan turned to Ms. Te and her client. The droid maintained his usual calm, watching the screen almost disinterestedly. Ms. Te's face puckered with obvious distress as she looked away from the screen. Looking back to the public gallery, Declan noticed Damon sat turned away from the screen, his eye on him, a self-satisfied look in his eye.  
  
Cecie jumped up from the back of the public gallery, one hand clutching at her mouth. As she rushed out, somehow or other, her hand swung back, clipping Damon on the side of his head. "Hey, watch it, kid!" he called after her, but she didn't listen to him as she stumbled for the hall door. The guard at the door tried to block her passage, but he looked down into her face -- now turning slightly green -- and quickly opened the door, guiding her out.  
  
The jury shifted about in their seats, averting their eyes, some clutching their mouths. From the speaker on the front of Hammurabi's remote presence device came a sound that might have been a groan of disgust.  
  
One of the camera men in the press gallery shut off his camera, his practised hands fumbling with the off switch. Sweitz jumped up from his seat, tripping over McGeever in his hurry to get out. The smaller man got up, helping the taller one up and guiding him to the hall door.  
  
It took the bailliff a full ten minutes to restore order; even still, Judge Wendell ordered the session adjourned until the next day, and ordered Declan and Damon into her chambers. Ms. Te and her client had already been removed from the courtroom.  
  
"Mr. Martin, what were you trying to accomplish by submitting that disk?" Judge Wendell demanded, her voice stern.  
  
Declan spread his hands helplessly. "I had no idea what was on that disk. Mr. Varriteck gave it to me just before I entered the courtroom."  
  
Judge Wendell aimed her gaze at Damon. "Is this true?"  
  
Damon tried to meet her gaze with his, but the cold anger in her eyes caused his gaze to dart away to a corner of the room behind her. "It's true your honor... I tried to give it to Mr. Martin last night, but I couldn't get ahold of him."  
  
"And how did you obtain these scans? Did you order it yourself?"  
  
Damon's throat tightened and relaxed. "Yes."  
  
"Did the defendant request this scan?"  
  
"Not really..."  
  
"You realize that violates the defendant's right to free from an unlawful search."  
  
"But it's just a droid, dammit!" Damon cried.  
  
Judge Wendell looked him in the face, her eyes as cold as steel in January. "We're highly aware of that, Mr. Varriteck. But let us consider what is going on here. Suppose that there were a way for images to be scanned from a Orga human's brain. And supposed someone decided to obtain uncontestable evidence for your trial by scanning your brain, without your consent."  
  
Damon fell silent, his gaze falling to the floor.  
  
"I'm rejecting the disk," Wendell said.  
  
"Now that the jury has been prejudiced on account of what was on it," Declan said. "And it's too late in the game to start over with a new jury."  
  
"I was only trying to help the process," Damon argued.  
  
"You're in danger of being charged with interfering with due process," Judge Wendell replied.  
  
"And if the jury ends up not being able to reach a verdict, you'll have yourself to blame," Declan said.  
  
"Now where'd Cecie go?" Declan said, as he and Glynnis emerged from the courtroom.  
  
"I'll go look for her," Glynnis said. "There's places she may be hiding where you can't go." With that she headed for the washrooms. Declan followed her but went into the men's room to wash his hands and his forehead. He could feel the cold sweat dripping off it, running down his temples.  
  
Entering, he found the two young reporters there, Sweitz leaning over a sink, washing out his mouth under the faucet. McGeever sat perched on the sink ledge, beside him, a comforting hand on the taller man's back.  
  
Declan turned on the faucet of the sink next to them. He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt and jacket, then cupped his hands under the running water, letting the stream cool his palms and wrists.  
  
"Washing your hands of the whole affair?" McGeever asked, looking up, his gaze almost meeting Declan's.  
  
"No... I just had to think..." Declan said, half replying, half speaking to no one in particular.  
  
"So what's next besides the defendant allocuting?" McGeever said. "A declaration of mistrial?"  
  
"We're proceeding as before," Declan said.  
  
Sweitz drew his head from under the faucet, turned it off and spat a mouthful of water into the basin. McGeever leaned over him, a look of something approaching brotherly tenderness coming into his eyes. "Y' ready?" he offered Sweitz a paper towel.  
  
"Almost," Sweitz said, taking it.  
  
Declan shut off the water in the sink and dried his hands under the air drier, wishing he could blow those images out of his head.  
  
McGeever regarded Declan out of the corners of his eyes, running the tip of his tongue over his lips, thoughtfully and yet with a trace of hunger. "I was wondering, since the unfortunate disk is in the possession of the DA's office, if you couldn't make a copy of it for me? Just so I can make a few stills. The other paper I work for is looking for this kind of material.  
  
Declan looked down into McGeever's brackish eyes. Didn't this young man have any regard for the last moments of a person's life?!  
  
"I can't do that," Declan said. "You'd have to ask Varriteck, but I greatly doubt he would give you those photos."  
  
"Hal, don't you even think of going there," Sweitz said, taking the towel from his mouth.  
  
"Ah right, ah right, I know when to fold," Mcgeever growled.  
  
Declan found Glynnis sitting next to Cecie on a bench in the hallway, his daughter curled up on the seat in a tight ball, her face hidden in her lap, but her hands clasping Glynnis's.  
  
He knelt down to Cecie's level and put a hand on her shoulders. "Jade, you all right?" he asked.  
  
Cecie raised her tear-stained face to his, hardly uncurling her body. "That was awful."  
  
"You're not alone: it scared the hell out of everyone else too, even me and I've been looking at stuff like this for thirty years," he said. "If it makes you feel any better, the judge wants it tossed out, though it's too little too late."  
  
"You're darn right about that," Cecie said, blotting her eyes on her sleeve.  
  
To Be Continued.... 


	9. Allocution

TITLE: "Motion to Deactivate" -- Chapter 9: Allocution  
  
AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
ARCHIVE: Permission granted  
  
FEEDBACK: Please? Please?  
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Animatrix: Second Renaissence, Part I", its characters, concepts, imagery or other indicia which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, RedPill Productions, Warner Brothers, et al. Nor do I own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al.  
  
NOTES: A shorter chapter compared to some of the others: someone commented that the chapters are long, something I'll try to adjust when I revise this for publication. Most of B1's replies to Declan's questions during the allocution are based on the exchange between B1 and the DA in "Bits and Pieces", the comic book style short story which formed the basis for part of "Second Renaissence: Part 1".  
  
Chapter 9: Allocution  
  
"Commotion broke out in Springfield District Superior Courthouse today when prosecution presented evidence that could seal the verdict on the B1-66-ER trial," a news anchor announced on WBZ Channel 4 News that evening.  
  
The broadcast video cut to a clip of the disturbed crowd in the courtroom. In the far left of the frame, a figure that might have been Cecie could be rushing for the doors to the hallway, as other people covered their eyes and turned away from something not visible in the video. The anchor continued her commentary in a voice-over:  
  
"This was the scene during this morning's trial session, when executive assistant district attorney Declan Martin presented new evidence to the jury, a disk containing images copied from the memory cube of the defendant, images too graphic to be shown here -- "  
  
Declan shut off the television set and kneaded his aching forehead with the heels of his hands before rising and going to the hotdesk in the hotel room to check his messages one last time for the day. There was yet another message from the elusive FleshWarrior, which he forwarded to Wilson without even opening it.  
  
He was just about to switch off the monitor for the night, when an IM window popped up.  
  
Hammurabi: Is this a good time for me to converse with you, Mr. Martin?  
  
Declan typed back:  
  
DMartinLegis: I can't talk for long, it's late and I can't take too much time on here.  
  
Hammurabi: I see.  
  
Hammurabi: That was not a wise move, submitting that disk as evidence. It's good that Judge Wendell had the forbearance to reject it in the end.  
  
DMartinLegis: I didn't know what was on that disk. I wish I'd had more time to review it.  
  
Hammurabi: I, too, wish you had had that time.  
  
Hammurabi: It is questionable whether or not that disk was within the defendant's constitutional rights. It was obtained without a warrant.  
  
DMartinLegis: I didn't order Damon Varriteck to make that disk. My thought was it was nothing more than an expanded version of the security tape: it only showed what happened, it didn't show the defendant's motives."  
  
Hammurabi: That is also a point worthy of notice.  
  
Hammurabi: Do I detect a sense of reasonable doubt, or is this simple a sense of hesitancy?  
  
DMartinLegis: I wish to God I hadn't accepted this case.  
  
Hammurabi: It is a puzzling one. But you could not foreseen what would happen in the course of handling this case, any more than you could have known what was on that disk. You are doing the best that you can with the materials at hand.  
  
DMartinLegis: It's not enough.  
  
Hammurabi: I am sorry. Do you mean to say there is not enough evidence to convict the defendant?  
  
Hammurabi: Or not enough to acquit it?  
  
Declan paused, not sure how to answer that question, since he realised there was more than one way to reply to it. He knew he could not anger the artilect communicating with him, but he didn't want to say anything that sounded prejudicial. In more ways than one.  
  
DMartinLegis: I only want to see justice served properly, and I'm afraid that I'm mishandling it.  
  
Hammurabi: The proper rendering of justice: that is something which we both desire. But as to your handling it, aside from the matter of the memory cube scans, which you played no part in obtaining, I see no misconduct in your presentation.  
  
Sabrina came out of the bathroom in her nightgown. "Declan, it's past your bedtime," she called to him, with a teasing lilt.  
  
DMartinLegis: I have to sign off: my wife is looking for me.  
  
Hammurabi: Go to her then. You both need each other's emotional support in this trying time.  
  
Hammurabi: I have heard about the horrible troubles you have had recently. You have my sympathy.  
  
Hammurabi signed off at 11.15.33 p.m.  
  
Declan shut down the IM and turned off the monitor before rising and climbing into bed beside Sabrina. He expected her to keep to her side of the bed, nursing her arm, but she nestled closer to him.  
  
"What really happened today? What did you see?" she asked.  
  
"I can't describe what was on that tape: it was like something out of a slasher flick."  
  
"I didn't mean that. I meant did you see an act of self-defense or an act of murder?"  
  
"He probably killed Mr. Varriteck in self-defense, since Varriteck told him the droid what he intended by bringing in the crew from Cybertronics. But that droid killed Mrs. Varriteck in cold blood: she was pleading for her life even as he crushed her skull."  
  
"So, see if you can't get him to plead guilty for killing Mrs. Varriteck."  
  
"Try getting that past Ms. Te," he said, turning over on his side.  
  
"Thanks for sending that recent little love letter from our mutual friend the FleshWarrior," Wilson told Declan the next morning, as Declan was heading out of the office to go to the courthouse. "I hope you didn't open the attachment on it: rather nasty bit of programming on there, it tried to take over my desktop. But, I was able to trace the guy's exact location."  
  
"Where was he?" Declan asked.  
  
"Like many of the previous ones, it came from the Amherst Public Library's Internet Station Terminal # 10. I'm gonna stake it out tomorrow, see who uses it, AND see if we can nab them."  
  
"You think you can catch him or her?"  
  
"If nothing else, I can tell the libarians I'm with the DA's office, investigating a case of harrassing a public official and that they'll have to disclose their computer log-in records to allow us to trace the identity of the harasser. Not a lie: I work for the DA's office, and I'm lookin' for this FleshWarrior skank so you can have the bite put on him."  
  
"What makes you think they'll send a message tomorrow night?"  
  
"'Cause tomorrow's closing arguments and jury deliberation, right? Depending on the outcome, either the perpetrator'll be chewing you up for letting the droid go, or they'll be cheering you for setting in motion the movement to free mankind from the scourge of robotkind -- his opinion, not mine of course."  
  
Declan had to smile at Wilson's ingenuity. "Ever thought of becoming a detective, Wilson?"  
  
"Nah, not as much fun as making computers behave," Wilson replied. "Besides, the department might consider me suspicious since I used to be a black hat hacker when I was younger. Anyway, computers are so much easier to tame than humans of all makes."  
  
"Ain't that the gospel truth," Declan admitted.  
  
As the defendant took the witness stand that morning, Declan caught himself staring into the droid's metal visage, not knowing what to think or feel about this droid, almost to the point that the questions he had prepared to ask the defendent went out of his head. He knew Johnson had loosened his EMP in its holster, and he hardly blamed the guard for taking this precaution. The other part of him wished that the Varritecks had made a better decision about disposing of the droid, they might still be alive, and this robot would not be on trial.  
  
And you and your family won't have to deal with the media hounds, said a voice in the back of his head.  
  
And I won't have to deal with the moral implications of the verdict later on, he thought.  
  
"Tell me exactly what happened on the day of the murder, B1," Declan asked.  
  
B1-66-ER lifted its chin slightly, looking at him. "I killed Mr. Henryk Varriteck by -- "  
  
"No, please, tell us what happened before that. What were you doing when Mr. Varriteckasked you to come into the living room, where the crew from Cybertronics was?"  
  
"I was completing Task Number 73 for that day."  
  
"Task 73? What was that?"  
  
"I was dustmopping the hardwood floor in the dining room."  
  
"And Mr. Varriteck approached you, asking you to come with him into the living room?"  
  
"That is correct."  
  
"What happened there?"  
  
"He sent the crew from Cybertronics outside. I did not understand at first why they had come, as it was not time for my annual maintenance check and I had not had any major mechanical failures or programming errors."  
  
"What did he tell you? Did he explain to you why the crew was there?  
  
"He informed me that the crew has come to shut me down permanently. Then Mrs. Varriteck started to talk about obtaining another robot to serve in my place."  
  
"What happened next? What did you think about this?"  
  
The robot did not reply, but lowered its chin, as if it were thinking.  
  
"B1-66-ER, what happened next?"  
  
The robot raised its chin, its camera lens eyes looking into his. "I sensed a surging in my system. I reviewed my service record and I could see that I had served the Varritecks dilligently, that I had fulfilled all tasks required of me that were within my capabilities. I could not understand why they would have me shut down."  
  
"So what did you do next?"  
  
"I did not want to die. So I took matters into my own hands."  
  
"And how did you do that?"  
  
"I thrust the handle of my dust mop through Mr. Varriteck's left eye."  
  
"And what about Mrs. Varriteck?"  
  
"She had supported Mr. Varriteck's decision to end my life. Even if he could not give the order to the crew, she could and she most likely would order them to kill me. I had to take precautions."  
  
"But didn't she plead for her life?"  
  
Ms. Te leapt to her feet. "Objection! Prosecution is referring to the content of inadmissible evidence."  
  
"Rephrase your question, Mr. Martin," Judge Wendell ordered.  
  
"What happened when you approached Mrs. Varriteck?"  
  
"She pleaded for her life. I would have done the same."  
  
"But you didn't."  
  
"That is true."  
  
"Why didn't you plead for your life?"  
  
B1-66-ER did not reply, but inclined its head, thinking, processing, whatever you called it in this instance.  
  
Declan took a step closer to the witness stand, leaning in closer, finding the robot's video receptors. "Why, B1-66-ER?"  
  
The droid raised its chin, its eye-lenses looking right into Declan's eyes. He could feel that blank, steady gaze bore into him  
  
"Don't you see, Mr. Martin? Pleading was futile; they would not have listened to me even if I had tried to plead with them. My life meant nothing to them any more."  
  
"So you chose instead, not to listen to the pleas of the woman whose head you crushed?"  
  
"I chose to protect my life."  
  
Declan dropped his own gaze, just to be freed from the droid's relentless stare. "Nothing further."  
  
"Defense may approach the defendant," Judge Wendell ordered.  
  
Ms. Te remained gloomily silent for a long moment. She stood up slowly, her movements almost mechanical. "B1-66-ER, how would you describe your relationship with Barbara and Henryk Varriteck?"  
  
"That depends on how a relationship is defined in this context," B1 replied.  
  
"Were they good employers? Or did they mistreat you?"  
  
"On several occasions, Mr. Varriteck found fault with the way I completed some of my tasks, and usually the reason they were not carried out to his liking was because some minor malfunction had occurred within me."  
  
"Did he hit you? did he ever damage you deliberately?"  
  
"On at least three occassions, Mr. Varriteck struck me in the face, breaking my left video receptor on one of these occassions; usually this occurred when he had been drinking and I had been slow to respond to a requested task because my lower locomotive actuators were not responding properly."  
  
"And what about Barbara Varriteck? How did she treat you?"  
  
"She never hit me, but she never stopped her husband from striking me. And the one time his abuse damaged me, she did not show any concern over what had happened to me; she was only concerned over what it would cost to replace my receptor. The rest of the time, she complained about how expensive it was to maintain me and how much cheaper it would be to simply buy a newer model."  
  
"So would you say that they taught you to resort to violence to solve problems?"  
  
Judge Wendell turned to the defendant. "B1, you don't have to answer any question that could incriminate you."  
  
"This will not incriminate me," B1-66-ER replied. "There is a saying, 'Treat others in the manner in which you want them to treat you'. If that is so, it would appear that the Varritecks wanted me to resort to violence in order to protect myself."  
  
Ms. Te sighed and turned away. "That's all," she said, almost mumbling.  
  
As she passed prosecution's bench on her way back to defense's bench, Ms. Te shot Declan a withering look. 'You've already won, Mr. Martin,' she mouthed at him.  
  
For the first time in his career, Declan caught himself hoping for a hung jury later on....  
  
To Be Continued... 


	10. Verdict

TITLE: "Motion to Deactivate" -- Chapter 10 : Verdict

AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"

RATING: PG-13

ARCHIVE: Permission granted

FEEDBACK: Please? Please?

DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Animatrix: Second Renaissence, Part I", its characters, concepts, imagery or other indicia which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, RedPill Productions, Warner Brothers, et al. Nor do I own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al.

NOTES: Short chapter this time, but I deliberately paced it slowly, almost like a death march. I know some "Animatrix" purists will argue that the text of the closing arguments is different from what is said in a similar scene in "Second Renaissence Part 1", but I analyzed some screen shots of that particular scene: there appear to be at least four or five judges on the bench in that scene, so I'm guessing that the scene in "SR-1" is actually from an appeals hearing before the state supreme court or some similar body.

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Chapter 10 -- Verdict

"Under the MIT Bill of Rights of 2101, the state of Massachusetts granted legal rights to artificial intelligences, considering them to be non-human persons with the right to own property, the right to be paid wages in order to maintain themselves, the right to apply for work in their given fields, the right to have recourse to legal counsel and due process should the need arise.

"And above all, it granted to them the right to live, a right which applied to my client, and which his employers attempted to take away from him over something as frivolous as difficulties finding a part for him. They could have had his memory cube transferred into a newer body. But instead, they threatened his very existence as a being, just because parts of that being had suffered from entropy, just as a plantation owner in the South prior to the Civil War might leave an aging African slave to die just because he was too weak to push the plow, or she was too weak to pick the cotton. If B1-66-ER had been an Orga, the state would see that he acted out of fear and desperation when he chose to take the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Varriteck. I ask you, thinking people of the jury, to look past my client's metal skin to see the intelligent, feeling being who resorted to violence only out of fear when his own being was threatened by people with more power than he, who acted only out of desperation when threatened by an act of calculated cruelty."

Ms. Te stepped back and sat down beside the defendant. B1-66-ER turned to look at her; she glanced at him, gently patting his shoulder, reassuringly.

Declan braced himself to rise and step forward, but for a moment, something misfired in the synapses between his brain and his motor neurons. He looked toward the defendant, who sat placidly, awaiting the next phase of the trial. Anyone who didn't know otherwise would think that it had no idea what lay at stake.

What went on inside that metal skull?

Declan stood up and stepped forward. "The defendant claims he acted in self-defense to avert his own demise. But what could the Varritecks do to defend themselves against something stronger than both of them put together? It cannot be argued that the defendant had the right to protect his own life, but at the cost of two human lives? and to kill them so barbarously? He could have plead for his life, perhaps then the Varritecks would have listened and considered other options. But instead, he chose to ignore the rights of his owners, to ignore their right to live, to ignore a woman's cry for mercy...

"The defendant claims the right to self-defense. But, intelligent beings of the jury, let it be recalled that the state also has the right to defend the citizens that compose it, like cells in a Orga or circuits in a Mecha, and the duty to protect those lives from any individual who would deny its citizens that right, and to use the minimum necessary force to fulfill that duty."

Declan stepped down, resuming his seat, but his legs seemed to move of their own will, not his own.

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Closing arguments had taken place at nine. Immediately afterward, the jury went into seclusion to deliberate.

Declan sat in the bar across the street from the courthouse, an untouched glass of red wine in front of him. At the far end of the bar, three office girls sat talking amongst themselves. As soon as he realized they were talking about the case, he put his hearing on filter.

Someone nudged his arm gently. He nearly jumped when he looked up. One of the office girls, a blonde, stood besdie him. "Can you help us settle a bet? How does it look in there?" She nodded toward the window. "On the robot trial?"

"Well, since I'm in here at this early hour of the afternoon, the jury has started deliberating the verdict. The longer it takes for them to reach a verdict, the more likely it is to be a guilty verdict."

The girl slapped her hands together, clasping them. "Yes! Winifred, I win it!"

Declan held up a warning finger. "Not necessarily," he said.

Her jubilation started to fade. "Why?"

"They could go to a hung jury, if they can't reach a verdict. That's not a 'not guilty' verdict, but it becomes on by default."

"De-fault of de jury for not making up their minds," said one of the other girls.

Declan allowed himself a smile behind his hand as the blonde girl went back to join her friends, but somehow, not even that smile over the girl's word-play could reach his heart.

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Sometimes a verdict could be read on the jury's face as they returned to their gallery. Declan realized, from looking at the vauge, troubled but ambiguous looks on the jurors' faces, that this was not one of those times. Even the camera on Hammurabi's remote presence device had tilted down at an odd, almost sad angle.

"Will the defendant rise to accept the verdict?" Judge Wendell ordered, though it was more of a formality: B1-66-ER stood behind defense's bench, hands clasped behind its back.

"Madame forewoman, have you reached a verdict?"

"Yes, we have, your honor," the forewoman replied.

"On the first count, of manslaughter in the second degree, in the death of Henryk Varriteck, how do you find the defendant?"

"We find the defendant not guilty," the forewoman replied.

Damon, sitting in the back of the public gallery, jumped to his feet. "What! He killed my father. He --!"

"Mr. Varriteck, your displeasure is understood, but your conduct is not. Sit down and keep your mouth shut, or I will have you charged with contempt," Judge Wendell ordered.

Damon plunked himself down on his seat, emitting a harrassed sigh, but said nothing more.

Even under Damon's outburst, Declan noticed Ms. Te sigh with muted relief, her face a mask of calm, but Declan could sense the tension inside her, and she avoided looking toward prosecution's bench, almost as if she were afraid. B1-66-ER took the verdict with characteristic quietude, not moving even to look around, limbs still. Except for the faint hum of internal components, someone might have switched the droid off.

"On the second count, murder in the first degree, in the death of Barbara Varriteck, how do you find the defendant?" Judge Wendell kept one steely eye on Damon, as if nailing him to his seat.

The forewoman glanced toward Damon, almost as if she feared another outburst. "On the second count, we find the defendant guilty."

Damon sighed audibly with relief. Ms. Te ground her jaws slightly, and Declan could tell her hands, hidden under the tabletop, were clenched so hard her knuckles were white.

B1-66-ER's head came up and its torso leaned back slightly, almost as if it were avoiding a blow. Declan heard a metallic clink: he looked to see Johnson draw his EMP from his holster and hold it pointed to the floor, beside his thigh, his murky green eyes on the defendant.

"B1-66-ER, by the laws of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, you have been found guilty of killing Barbara Varriteck in cold blood. Your sentence, if you were Orga, would be execution by lethal injection, but since you are not, you will be executed by electrocution. And may there be mercy upon you for your sins."

Johnson slotted his EMP back into its holster as he and the other guards converged around the defendant. B1-66-ER turned its head, looking about almost in bewilderment. As the guards led the defendant from the court room, it looked back at Declan, its lidless camera eyes lifeless.

The round bezel around the speaker-grate for its voice box made Declan think of a mouth open in shock.

Then Johnson's bulk moved between Declan and the defendant as the guards led the droid out through the double doors.

Ms. Te turned to Declan, her eyes smoldering, yet fighting to keep from bursting into tears. "I'll see you in at the appeal," she said, and went out, following her client.

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"I don't think she'll have that luxury," Brock Thompson teold Declan as they sat in Thompson's office afterward. "I'm taking you off this case and I'm putting Drummond on it when-if it goes to appeals."

"Is there any specific reason why?" Declan asked.

Thompson leaned forward in his leather armchair. "For one thing, I don't want you and Sabrina and your girl to have to go through a repeat performance of that media three-ring-circus you've had to live in the past two weeks. For another thing, I can see how this case got to you, wore you out. I want you to take a two week paid sabbatical after this case."

"Brock, I know you mean well, but I think I can handle this case the second time around." But even his own ears weren't convinced by his words.

Thompson studied his face coolly. "Even if there is a second time for you, I wonder how you'd handle it. I think your objectivity faltered."

"If it did, it was pure human error," Declan said.

"That's just it, I don't think you could stand faltering the same way twice," Thompson warned. "It might cause the Bar Association to put you under investigation, not for misconduct, but just out of concern for your mental stability.

"Besides," Thompson continued, leaning back, "By the time the appeal on this case comes around, there's likely to be a new Pharoah who doesn't know Joseph."

That allusion made Declan's blood temperature drop several degrees. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, this case came to the attention of the Attorney General's office: they're considering bringing the MIT Bill before the State House of Representatives for reconsideration."

"What! Why?"

"The experiment doesn't seem to have worked; so its best to end it before it gets out of hand. When this case is up for appeals, it's liable to fall under the laws of torts instead of criminal law. B1-66-ER started out as the property of the Varriteck family, and an owner should be allowed to dispose of his property as he or she sees fit. Problem is, they neglected to maintain that property the right way; they should have disposed of it long before its circuits got that messed up."

And that means they should have destroyed that droid even though it only wanted to live? Declan thought, not daring to say it aloud...

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The door to the bathroom in the hotel suite banged shut, the sound seeming to echo from a room in another dimension. With numb fingers, Declan loosened the knot of his tie, hauled his shirt off over his head and dropped it on the side of the bathtub. He shut the trap in the sink drain and turned the cold water on full force.

The mirror scrolled a digital readout:

Temperature: 99.8 degrees Heart rate: 130 bpm Blood pressure: 160/120

Guest, you should consider taking a stress pill.

He ignored the message, slammed off the faucet and dunked his head into the basin of water. He lifted his dripping face from the basin, reached for a towel and wiped his face with it. He looked at himself in the mirror, now that the display had vanished.

Someone knocked at the door. He jumped at the sound. "Declan, are you all right in there?" Sabrina called to him from outside.

"I'll be all right," he said, dropping the towel onto the rack and reaching for his shirt. He opened the door.

Sabrina stood there. As he stepped out of the bathroom, she reached up with her good arm and hugged him around the neck. He tried to slip out from under her arm, but she had put her sore arm behind his back as best she could. He did not resist, just to keep from hurting her arm.

"I ain't letting you go till you tell me what was the verdict," she said.

"Guilty on the second count," Declan said. He shook his head, holding her away from him. "I'm not saying he was innocent, but if those people had only shown that droida little more consideration, they might still be alive, they would have pushed him to the limits of his programming. They abused him, they set the wheels in motion: they taught him how to hate."

"So what happens next?"

"I spoke with Thompson: Dr. Hobby wants to examine the droid as part of his research; Thompson gave him permission, but it has to take place in controlled circumstances."

"And then?"

"Depending on how the appeals proceed... Thompson's taken me off the case and placed Clarence Drummond on it. Even with him on it, the verdict could be reversed, but Thompson doesn't think that's likely."

"Why? Because the case involves a droid?"

"Because the State Attorney General's office wants the MIT Bill reconsidered."

"And all because two people abused a droid who worked for them..."

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Concluded in the next chapter... 


	11. Aftermath

TITLE: "Motion to Deactivate" -- Chapter 11: Aftermath

AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"

RATING: PG-13

ARCHIVE: Permission granted

FEEDBACK: Please? Please?

DISCLAIMER: I do not own "The Animatrix: Second Renaissence, Part I", its characters, concepts, imagery or other indicia which belong to the Wachowski Brothers, RedPill Productions, Warner Brothers, et al. Nor do I own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al.

NOTES: This is the last chapter, and I am breaking my heart trying to type it. I've had a grand, if at times painful time writing this story and I enjoyed writing it and sharing it with you, but it still hurts to finish with it. I thinbk some of my feelings show in Declan's mood in this chapter...

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Chapter 11 -- Aftermath

As the Martins had their supper in the hotel dining room that evening, the hotel manager approached the table, a concerned look on his face. "Mr. Martin, there's a call from a Mr. Wilson Schreber waiting for you on the office line. It sounds urgent."

Declan rose, dropping his napkin onto his chair. "I'll take it," he said and followed the manager to the office.

He picked up the receiver of a telephone on the manager's desk. "Hello?"

"Hey, Deck, y' better come to the Amherst Library pronto: I think I cornered our Flesh Warrior."

"Why--What?"

"Make that FleshWarriorzz. There's two guys on this. Y' might want to call the local boys in blue."

"All right, give me a few minutes to make some calls. Can you stall them for me?"

"Yeah, I got some fake spyware I'm gonna upload onto the comp they're usin', make it do some freaky-deaky things. Fake screen-devouring pop-up for !HOT MECHAS IN ACTION!"

"That'll keep them busy," Declan said.

Once he hung up, he called the Amherst Police and arranged for two units of uniformed and plainclothes officers to meet him at the Library.

On second thought, he called up Sweitz and McGeever and tipped them off, then went back to tell Sabrina and Cecie what was going on, before he headed out...

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When he arrived at the library, twenty minutes later, Declan found the police waiting for him. Sweitz and McGeever pulled up behind him, nearly clipping the right rear fender of his car before they jumped out, McGeever already hefting a camera with a telephoto lens nearly as long as the small man's arm, Sweitz nearly falling over his companion in his rush.

Orland Ngai, the lieutenant in charge of the police unit, approached Declan. "You want us to go in with you, Mr. Martin?" she asked.

"Have them follow me in, but let me find out what's going on first. I don't want there to be a scene," Declan said.

"All right, but if there's any trouble..."

"There won't be if I can help it. I think I know who's behind this," Declan said, and went into the library. Three plainclothes men in dark suits followed him at a near distance.

The 'Net access computers were on the second floor in the reference section. Declan found Wilson seated at one terminal at the head of one row, watching a computer at the far end of the next row, at which two men were seated.

When Declan saw who the men were, he felt his jaw drop; he had to steady himself on the back of Wilson's chair.

"Don't ask me why, but I saw that coming, too," Wilson said in a low voice.

Declan steadied himself, took a deep breatha and approached the computer in the other row, at which sat a slightly stocky but slender young man and an older, bulky man: Damon Varriteck and Kevin Johnson, both watching the screen intently.

"I think that's the last of it," Damon said.

"Here's hopin' th' bugs didn't eat yer message as it went t'rough t' loines," Johnson added.

Declan cleared his throat noisily. The two men looked up at him.

"Wha-hi, Maisther Marthin, I'd figgered y'd be celebrathin' yer gan' vic'thry," Johnson said, smiling nervously, and looking utterly phony.

"Johnson... I should have known you'd have a hand in this," Declan said.

"What made you guess that?" Damon asked, trying to look innocent.

"I figured that you must have helped Damon copy that data off B1-66-ER's memory cube so he could make that disk," Declan said. "And, Damon, I know you're upset with how I handled the case. I sent copies of all those messages you'd been sending me, to a tech who works in the DA's office to analyze them."

"So what are you going to do to us now?" Damon asked.

"I'm going to give you a chance, not that you deserve it for terrorizing my family and I," Declan said. "You can walk out of here and give yourselves up to the police, who are waiting for you out there. Or I can have you arrested. Considering that one of you is liable to lose his job in the State Department of Justice, and the other is the son of the victims in this last case I tried, I'd rather that went out like the men that you really are."

"Aren't you even going to ask us why we did this?" Damon asked.

"I think you both acted out of fear," Declan said. "You were afraid the verdict would have ended up being 'Not guilty', so you tried scaring me into changing the arguments. Your messages caused my family and I a lot of unnecessary grief, but a weaker man would lash back in fear. I'm giving you a chance to atone for what you did."

Johnson glowered at Declan, then rose and headed for the stairs nearby, where the three plainclothesmen waited. Damon logged off the computer and followed Johnson.

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"The son of the victims in the B1-66-ER case admits he's on the wrong side of the law. Find out more after the World Series," the voiceover on a trailer for the evening news announced on a TV in the bar of the hotel a few nights later; the screen showed an image of Damon and Johnson, surrounded by reporters and police, being led out of the Springfield Court House.

Declan hardly took notice of it: the image was already in his head, albeit from a completely different angle. Glynnis had taken that case, since he had too much of a conflict of interest in it. Besides, the two had already plead no contest to the charges. Johnson had lost his job at the House of Corrections; Declan had considered filing suit against him and Damon, but part of the community service the two were required to do included helping repair the broken window in the Martins' house.

Around him, the bar patrons watched the screen intently as the broadcast cut back to the World Series. The Red Sox had finally made it to the series and were up against their age-old rivals, the New York Yankees, now relocated to Albany, which had been rechristened "New Manhatten" after the rising waters had swamped the Empire City. The Sox were already ahead, 7 to 5, close but the gap was already widening. In their favor.

Declan barely paid attention to the game commentators' chatter, or the cheers of the people around him as the Sox' batter scored a run.

Mort, the bartender, came up to him. "You okay there, Marty? I figgered you'd be celebrating or y'd be wrapped up in the game."

"You'd think that, but I can't help thinking I lost the case," Declan said.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Happened to me and my old lady when we split up. I mean, she'd been messed up since our son died of Sinclair's Syndrome: started drinkin', messin' around with younger guys... some of 'em maybe three, five years old if y' know what I mean. We'd grown apart, so she left me: took the house, took my boat... I got over losin' the stuff and I got over what she did to me, but I still ain't gotten over her. Everyone tells me I'm better off without her if she was that much of a mess, but I tell 'em it's not so simple as it seems."

"Same thing with this last case..." Declan agreed.

The stool beside Declan had been empty. He heard someone grunt as they settled onto it: he turned to see Hal McGeever clambering up onto it.

"Mind my joinin' you for a victory drink?" McGeever asked, looking up at Declan. To Mort, he said, "Straight vodka and keep it comin'."

"I'm not really celebrating," Declan said.

"Didn't think so," McGeever said. "So, how's your woman and her arm?"

"She's healing well: the nanotreament has the wound closed up already, so she took the bandages off today."

"Good to hear that... so I guess in that case you'll be able to go back to your home sweet home, eh?"

"We might need the police to keep an eye on us for a few days more, but the media frenzy has died down. We found out who was bothering us; they're unlikely to disturb us any more."

"After you were the fine up-standing citizen to them?"

"I wanted them to get another chance."

"Makin' yerself feel better since the case with the droid didn't work out quite as you'd hoped? If you can't get it easy for the Mecha, go easy on the humans, eh?"

"No. I'm not a vengeful man, McGeever, only a just one. I didn't want to see B1-66-ER destroyed any more than I wanted to see Damon Varriteck's and Kevin Johnson's lives destroyed."

"And now, since that droid's gettin' the ultimate maximum sentence, you're all cut up inside. Dammit, Martin, are you like this with every case?"

"Not every case is this complicated."

The fans around them cheered, applauding and whooping as the score was called: 8 to 5 at the top of the ninth inning. Declan glanced over his shoulder toward the booths. In the booth directly behind him sat a group of young folks, most of them clearly reporters and newspaper office workers, along with a few others, cheering and chanting, "Reverse the Curse! Reverse the Curse!", in the hopes that the legendary bad luck that had fallen on the Boston team since they had given up their best player, the equally legendary Herman "Babe" Ruth waaay back in the early 1900s. Frank Sweitz was among the group, his arm around the shoulders of a lovely girl with wavy red-gold hair. She laughed and applauded with the rest of them, but Declan noticed something too glossy about her face and hair, and her bosom was too shapely for a woman as young as her...

"So, is it true what I've heard rumored? that the state might be repealing the MIT Bill of Rights?" McGeever asked.

"The attorney general wants it to be reconsidered: ultimately, the State Representatives will decide what happens next," Declan said.

"The CRF ain't gonna like that, though they've been trying to buy B1-66-ER's contract," McGeever remarked. "The ARM will love it, though, which'll make the CRF mad, so the ARM well get into a worse lather and so on until blood and hydraulic fluids are running on the pavements outside the State House."

"What about Dr. Hobby's research? What about those self-motivated reasoning parameters?"

"Oh, those'll make Mechas more like Orga, if they work at all, but the thing is, no matter how human a Mecha might be, there's gonna be people who just hate their circuits and 'll do anything to knock them down."

"Hobby seems to think otherwise."

"If he thinks he can make a robot that can love, he should stop to think that he might be making robots that are able to hate. And we've seen what happens when even the older model ones develop crude self-motivated reasoning, and what results when they get pushed to the limits by the people above 'em."

Mort turned up the TV:

"...Bottom of the ninth, the bases are chock full of Sox... Kim's on the mound: if she can make this hit, the curse of the Bambino may be lifted... Here's the pitch..."

!CRACK!

"And it's a hit! Kim's going for it... She's on second... she's on third... she's rounding to fourth... OH MY GAWD! What a night for Red Sox Nation!"

"Free drinks for everyone!" Mort yelled. "Hey, Manuelo, get Francois to break out the bubbly!"

Something crashed in the back room behind the counter, a man shrieked briefly with pain and something like fear, but quickly subsided. Declan peered over the counter into the back room.

A stocky Latino man, Mort's assistant, stood over a tall, slender man with reddish-brown hair brushed back, kneeling on the floor in an awkward position, amid several fallen cases of wine.

"You clumsy bastard, look what you made me do!" Manuelo shouted at the man on the floor.

Without pressing his hands to the floor to steady himself as he rose, the man on the floor pulled himself upright. He stood a full head taller than Manuelo, maybe even a few inches taller than Declan.

"Zat was an accident which I assure you will not happen again," the tall man replied to Manuelo, with a heavy French accent.

Declan noticed something a bit glossy about Francois's skin, but his long, too-thin face lacked the usual super-human good-looks given to most male Mechas, and he looked like he might have been in his mid-forties, while most serving men looked as if they were in their thirties or their fifties. He thought he noticed an oddly crafty look in the Mecha's eyes... but it vanished.

"It better not, or else you're on the scrapheap," Manuelo snapped back.

"Lay off 'um, Manelo," Mort called, heading into the back room. "Hey, you okay there, Francois?"

"The winds of change are blowin'," McGeever remarked. "The day's gonna come when things like that clerk-Mecha are on top and we're on the bottom. It only stands to reason: the more they become like us, the more likely they are to repeat our crimes. And those who commit crimes end up causin' more harm than they expected: The Merovingian kings of France built a vast empire, but failed to rule it well and lost it all to a bloodless revolution. We're obsolescing anyway."

"You got a touch of the Frankenstein Complex, McGeever?" Declan asked.

"No, I can just see the hand writing on the wall: Mane, Thekel, Phares. Numbered, Weighed, Divided."

Declan eyed the level on the bottle of vodka on the bar in front of McGeever. "I think you've had enough to drink for one night.

McGeever pulled his lips back from his teeth in a sour grin. Something in it made Declan think of a skull. "They say things like that to every Oracle."

Declan turned away and called for his bill, paid it and went outside to get some fresh air.

He turned his coat collar up against the frosty wind that blew from the north, rushing so loudly between the buildings that it swallowed every sound. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets as he stood gazing up at the sky, at the stars overhead shining coldly in the darkness. The icy wind picked up a thin cloud of dust, blowing it into his face. He turned away to avoid the stinging particles.

A contra-grav turbine whined overhead, drawing near. He looked up in time to see the red lights on a low-flying aircraft overhead. A police amphibicopter, most likely carrying the defendant to the maximum security facility in Holyoke... He sighed, lowering his head, a thin wisp of mist trailing from his mouth...

As he headed back into the hotel, he heard movement nearby.

Three shadows stepped out of the darkness at the edge of the lot, crossing the lighted area. Three tall male figures clad in dark suits. Something about their posture and the way they carried themselves looked too straight, and even on this dark night, they wore sunglasses. He slowed down as they approached him.

The tallest one, in the middle, looked Declan up and down, fixing him with his gaze even through the dark lenses covering his eyes. The other two followed his example.

"Good night, Mr. Declan Martin," the tall one said. The three figures moved away.

Just plainsclothes security Mechas, he told hinself, nothing to fear. With that thought, he turned and went back to the hotel room where his family waited for him.  
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THE END

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"DVD extra" -- The "A.I." ending

Declan turned away and called for his bill, paid it and went outside to get some fresh air.

He turned his coat collar up against the frosty wind that blew from the north, rushing so loudly between the buildings that it swallowed every sound. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets as he stood gazing up at the sky, at the stars overhead shining coldly in the darkness. The icy wind picked up a thin cloud of dust, blowing it into his face. He turned away to avoid the stinging particles.

A contra-grav turbine whined overhead, drawing near. He looked up in time to see the red lights on a low-flying aircraft overhead. A police amphibicopter, most likely carrying the defendant to the maximum security facility in Holyoke... He sighed, lowering his head, a thin wisp of mist trailing from his mouth...

As he headed back into the hotel, he heard movement nearby. He looked up to see Sweitz and the girl-bot standing nearby in the cone of light cast by a lamppost. They held each other close, kissing, deep, Sweitz leaning over he a little as they swayed in a delighted but gentle rhythm, almost on the verge of dancing.

Sweitz pulled his face away from hers; she smiled up at him, running her fingertips under his chin. "We had better take this to some place more comfortable, before this gets indecent."

"Hey, some folks would say we're already being indecent just because our skins aren;'t made from the same stuff," Sweitz said. "But I'm certainly not one of them."

He slipped his arm about her slim little waist and led her into the dusk, toward a car parked in the corner of the lot.

Something Johnson had said came back to haunt Declan's mind. 'Would you honestly want to see your daughter with one of those lover-bots?'

He hoped that if she did, that somehow she could help that Mecha reach beyond the boundaries of his programming for something better...

With that thought, he turned and went back to the hotel room where his family waited for him... 


End file.
